


50 Reasons, Age Play Version

by FlyingMocha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Creatively inappropriate use of sex toys, Daddy John, Daddy Kink, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Little Sherlock, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, Some Sex, Spanking, nappies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-05-25 08:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 37,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14973191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMocha/pseuds/FlyingMocha
Summary: I saw some works in which the author took a list of 50 reasons for sex, and applied it to their characters of choice.  In the style of those works, this is fifty reasons to engage in… er… age play, I suppose.  Each chapter is rated individually from general on up, with a brief note about its content.  Please take a look at the notes, and feel free to skip any chapters that don't suit.  Further notes inside, because holy wow does this thing ever need an explanation.





	1. Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fifty Good Reasons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/360811) by [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo). 



> Well, then. Starting at the beginning, I feel extremely, horrifically awkward about posting this, and I have spent months debating on whether to go for it. This is not an activity I've ever participated in, myself. I've never even talked with anyone who's into it. I'm writing this because I'm curious and writing is a way to explore new ideas. Thus, this may be awful, possibly hilariously so. It might totally miss the mark at times. But I wanted to write it, so I did. And I've had a crappy week, and it's only going to get worse, and at some point I just lost all sense of reason and I started posting it.
> 
> I completely fell in love with this structural concept when I read mistyzeo's Fifty Good Reasons, a story based on a list of 50 reasons for sex. I love it so well that I want to do it myself, but it's been done. It's been done so well that the only thing I could do to improve upon it is to tell you to go read it for yourself (https://archiveofourown.org/works/360811/chapters/585081). So I'm going to try something completely different with the list. This is 50 reasons to engage in some form or another of age play. Well, most chapters, anyway. Some are just vanilla relationship stuff. The muse goes where it goes, and all.
> 
> So here we go, and please remember, check the notes at the top of each chapter for rating information before deciding to read.

**RATING: Teen/general-ish for non-sexual age play.**

He'd been considering the idea, letting it fester in his mind for several weeks when, as he was putting the laundry away one day, Sherlock decided to experiment with it. He felt more than a bit awkward, but he experimented with all sorts of things. Why not this... age play, er, thing, that he'd encountered as part of a recent case. Best way to understand a thing is to experience it in action, right? Even though he knew he was alone, he still glanced around, then checked the door locks and closed the curtains before beginning.

He'd read online about how people got into this at a young age, while they were still living with parents or flatmates, or otherwise were unable to purchase whatever they wanted. They had some creative ideas for makeshift supplies. Following guidance he'd gleaned from several web forums, Sherlock grabbed the largest, fluffiest towel he could find -- and paused. He'd checked the locks and drawn the drapes, but Mycroft's goons would notice on the surveillance cameras. They'd report Sherlock's antics within minutes. He considered whether to stop and cover the cameras first. No, he decided. Anyone who decides to make a career out of snooping on him on Mycroft's behalf, deserves what they get. Today, they were going to earn their money, having to sit and watch this. Shooting a disdainful glance towards the last known location of the bedroom camera, he shook the towel out and folded it in the way he'd read about online.

After the third folding attempt yielded a sufficient level of accuracy, Sherlock stripped and flung himself down onto his creation. He lay still, wondering how to secure the towel to himself. Ah! He suddenly remembered the kilt pins in the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. That would work. He quickly retrieved them and then set about pinning the towel around his waist. He sat up slowly, expecting… he wasn't sure what. Was it supposed to be a turn-on? A turn-off? And the most important question, was it either of those things for him? He wasn't sure. He wiggled slightly, as if to test. Maybe, it could be a turn on, if this particular towel-folding tactic weren't just a bit too loose at the front. If the cloth were rubbing against him, confining his bits just a bit, then... maybe. It could be. So it could be a sexual thing, he decided, at least in some circumstances. More research was required on that topic.

But other people online wrote about the purpose, at least for them, being to relax and act like small children, without any connection to sexual interests. Maybe he should try that, too. Lacking anything that could be pressed into service as a child's toy, Sherlock improvised, printing a colouring sheet from the internet and pulling out his collection of markers and highlighters. Methodically, he filled in each section with the most logical choice from the colours he had available. Somewhere along the way, he became more whimsical about it, choosing colours he liked, whether or not they made sense. This was relaxing, he admitted as he swirled the pen this way and that, giving texture to the fluorescent orange turtle's shell on which he was working. So this thing could be relaxing, as well as potentially sexually stimulating. Perhaps it could be both at once, depending on whether one was so inclined.

Sherlock frowned, realising what else he would have to do to complete the experiment properly. Was it necessary, really? Science was important, but could it possibly be worth this?

Of course it was; he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Without another thought, he went and sat in the bathtub (if this experiment went badly, at least he would leave no evidence) and tried to wet himself. And failed. Sherlock grunted with effort before blowing out a deeply frustrated sigh. He tried several more times, even tried turning on the tap at the sink to help himself along, and still nothing. Sherlock hummed to himself, thinking carefully. He had no trouble with urination normally, so what was different now, aside from… well, everything?

Oh! Of course! Normally, he relaxed rather than trying to force the issue. He closed his eyes and pictured himself standing at his preferred urinal at Angelo's. A moment later, a warm sensation flooded his makeshift nappy. Success!

And then it quickly went to a cold, abrasive sort of feeling. Ew ew ew, no wonder babies fussed about this. Sherlock hastily unpinned himself and stood up, glaring at the offending mess as he put the used towel into a plastic rubbish bin liner. After a brief shower, he'd go wash one more load of laundry and nobody, other than Mycroft's surveillance team, would ever have to know.

As he stepped out of the shower, Sherlock realised that he actually felt a sense of loss about having to wash the soiled towel and put his clothes back on. Interesting. He had no idea how to process this. Was he, after spending two days rolling his eyes at his case, actually one of… those people? Why had he reacted so negatively during the case, anyhow? Sure, it was a bit odd, but from a scientific perspective, was there anything wrong with being one of those… all right, he had to find a better term than "those people". He considered what the experiment had established. Colouring was relaxing, and he appeared to haveat least some preference for this novel form of undergarment, at the very least. But, did he have a problem with these findings? And, should he?

Sherlock hummed in thought. Colouring, he was all right with, so he set that aside and focused on the more challenging part. Scientifically, he supposed it was no different than anyone else's underwear preferences. Perhaps on some moral level, but Sherlock had never been one to allow such malleable standards to influence his notion of right and wrong; that's what his beloved science was for. After a moment, he could find no reason to pass judgement on this new discovery about himself, so he found and folded his second-best towel and reached for the kilt pins as he glanced around the room in search of his computer. Pilfering John's bath towels wasn't a long-term solution to his newfound preference, so clearly, Sherlock had some shopping to do.


	2. Because You Can't Get to Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RATING: General/Teen for non-sexual age play.
> 
> Also, it's worth mentioning that I learned to refer to a dummy/pacifier as a soother, so that's what I call them here. I've seen other terms used more frequently in other stories I've read here, so I wanted to mention that, for clarity.

John never thought of himself as one of those people to reach out for his partner in his sleep, but as he jarred awake at the sensation of touching the unoccupied other half of the bed, he decided he might have to re-evaluate that assumption. He yawned, then got up in search of his partner.

"Why can't you sleep?" he asked Sherlock when he found the slender man sprawled on the sofa, staring blankly at a spot on the wall.

Sherlock shrugged. "No reason. Just can't. My restlessness was beginning to disturb you, so I moved." John yawned, then motioned for Sherlock to return to their bedroom, and mercifully, he followed with only minimal grumbling. "I might not be able to sleep but I'm definitely too tired for that," Sherlock argued when John knelt before him and yanked his pyjama trousers off.

John grinned deviously, then leaned in to kiss Sherlock's abdomen, just above his bits. Sherlock gave an undignified squawk of surprise and dismay, making John laugh gently. "I do enjoy that," he answered, "but it's not what I have in mind right now."

"Then what…" Sherlock began, his question fading when John pulled out the box they kept under the bed. "Oh." He watched quietly as his partner took out his thickest nappy, along with his favourite nappy cover and a soother. John spread the nappy out on the bed, then gestured for Sherlock to lie down. He eagerly complied, holding the front so John could fasten it snugly around him.

This had been one of Sherlock's least well-planned purchases. When he'd first discovered and decided to indulge his cravings, he'd carefully researched and purchased the thickest, most absorbent nappy he could find -- and then discovered that it was hideously uncomfortable to sit on, impossible to walk in, and took hours to wash and dry. And anyway, he wasn't sure he'd enjoyed wetting it at all, let alone enough to be worth all that fuss. But John had discovered that it made him feel especially calm when used at bedtime, and the washing difficulty could be avoided somewhat by lining it with a much thinner nappy, in much the same way that socks protect shoes.

That job done, John crawled up into the bed, sitting up with arms extended towards his partner. Sherlock didn't need a second invitation to recline against John's chest. His partner stroked his head and neck with strong yet gentle hands, waiting until he felt grounded and secure before nudging at his lip with the soother. Sherlock instantly took the offered bit of silicone from him, suckling hard at first, and then more gently as he began to relax. Yes, this could work to cure his sleeplessness, at least for tonight.

"Ready to lie down?" John asked, having noticed that Sherlock was getting drowsy already. In answer, the younger man scooted towards his pillow, settling against it with a pleased hum.

"Good chance it'll be interested in the morning," Sherlock commented, indicating downward. "After rubbing against all this fabric all night."

"If so, I'll be here to help," John replied. "Good night." Sherlock hummed in reply, and John could tell by his breathing that he was already almost asleep.


	3. Roommate Out of Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING: General/teen for non-sexual age play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full title is actually "your roommate is out of town and you can do it on the couch" but I couldn't figure out which words not to capitalise, and the risk of having a proper title improperly formatted was really irritating me.

John sat in his chair, sipping his morning tea and watching Sherlock. He was off work today, and Sherlock was between "worthwhile" cases, so John was taking the opportunity to rest while he had the chance. Sherlock, however, was sifting through old case files on one side of the table while working on some sort of microscopic study of fabric on the other, judging by the way each hand was performing a different task, and he was only sort of looking at both.

He was getting just a touch manic, John thought, then mentally slapped himself when he realised it had been nearly two weeks since they'd… played. Sherlock seemed to be edging out of control because he was, and he needed John to rein him in.

John breathed out a long, thoughtful sigh as he considered what sort of ageplay scenario he might like to create for Sherlock. Sometimes the game just happened; he got home from work and there was his life partner, sprawled on the floor surrounded by toys. Other times, he had to lay out a plan of action to get things started. But what would work today? Bath time, maybe? Snack and children's television? Maybe a bottle of tea… John cocked his head, first thinking, and then just letting his mind wander back to their first playtime together.

He'd been away at a conference, which had been meant to be a three-day affair, but by Friday morning, it was painfully obvious that Saturday's sessions were really about "nobody will think a two-day conference is worth attending" so he decided to go home early. He'd rebooked his Saturday night flight for Saturday morning, and then devoted some time to considering something that had happened right as he was packing to leave for the conference. Sherlock had, unbelievably, done laundry for him, and (far more believably) washed a pair of his own trousers and some bath towels along with John's things, but without any softener, so he had to sort out his shorts and socks from some very staticky towels. Among them, however, he'd stumbled upon an hourglass-shaped towel, that it took him a few moments to realise was actually some sort of… well… nappy. In an adult size.

If Mrs Hudson had done the laundry, he might wonder if it was hers. But if Mrs Hudson had done the laundry, there wouldn't be towels mixed in with his clothes at all, let alone clinging to his stuff like society had yet to even consider cracking the problem of laundry static. Thus, the nappy didn't belong to her. Besides, the science-themed print wasn't really… well maybe it was her style, but it was definitely Sherlock's style. And about his size. Mixed in with the load of laundry Sherlock had washed for him. This was Sherlock's nappy. In a fit of… confusion? Suspicion? John wasn't sure what motivated him, but he'd dug around in various cabinets and found other… things. Like a toy boat in a shoebox under the sink, and a baby bottle in that obnoxious corner cabinet in the kitchen, that nothing useful fits into.

John had no real idea how to piece that evidence together, but he only had enough time to pack and catch his flight, so he'd decided not to ask his boyfriend about this. Instead, he'd set aside spare time to think on it, and do some research. By the time he got back to London, he'd gone through Sherlock's internet records to learn more (no matter how big a genius he was, he'd likely never think to use his own computer, or delete his browser history) and he'd decided how to handle the situation.

From his research, John had come to the conclusion that Sherlock was doing this for stress relief of some sort, that it had nothing to do with illegal activities, and that… er… while the images brought up by Sherlock's searches were just a touch disturbing, there was something sweet and innocent, and possibly just a bit appealing, about the idea of Sherlock allowing himself to tap into his inner child, or whatever psychologists call it these days. It was something that John wanted to see, and maybe even participate in, if that was an option. He'd decided that he would sit Sherlock down, tell him his secret had been discovered, and… John faltered as he exited the airport coffee shop. Maybe he should bring a gift. That's what boyfriends do, after all. _And fathers,_ his mind supplied, and although that thought gave him more than a bit of anxiety, he found himself thinking of a gift that would be appropriate for the topic they were about to discuss.

As John worked his way out of the airport, he caught sight of a red plush dragon, big enough to cuddle but small enough to tuck away out of sight when needed. Before he could think it through, he'd bought the silly thing and put it in his carry-on bag next to his laptop. He'd also acquired a massive ball of nerves in his stomach, but he forced himself to ignore that, for the moment. If he was going to forge a long-term relationship with Sherlock, it was going to involve some uncomfortable conversations at times. This was merely the first one.

John spent the entire trip home plotting how he was going to do this, what he was going to say, where he'd sit, even whether or not he should hold Sherlock's hand, and by the time he got home, he felt… well, not ready, exactly, but he'd had the driver circle the block twice and he probably shouldn't run the fare any higher, so it was time to go have The Conversation. So he'd paid his driver, taken his bag, and gone upstairs to find Sherlock.

And he found Sherlock. Laying on the sofa wearing nothing but a nappy (bright blue, with stars and galaxies on it), eagerly drinking water from his bottle, and watching a pirate cartoon show. For about half a second, anyway, before Sherlock squawked in horror, bolted to the bedroom, and slammed the door. John sighed as he heard the door lock turn. He very, very quickly re-planned his approach, then put his things down. Halfway to the hall, he remembered the dragon and doubled back for it, then bypassed the locked door by going through the bathroom into the bedroom, where he found Sherlock hiding under the blankets.

"Love..?" he asked, sitting gingerly on the bed near the lump in the middle. "Love, please." He tried to pull the blanket down, but Sherlock fought back, wrestling it even higher over his head. "I'm guessing you were doing that because you thought I was going to be away until tonight." A miserable groan came from within the blankets. "Sherlock, I want you to look at the gift I have for you."

"Gift?" the younger man asked.

"Yes, gift," John said. "It's customary when one returns from a business trip. Please, Sherlock. It'll make this conversation a lot easier if you let me give you your gift first." Sherlock still didn't move, so John decided on another approach. After taking a moment to ascertain by the shape of the lump which direction Sherlock was facing, John pulled up the edge of the blanket at Sherlock's back, and shoved the plush dragon under the blankets, over Sherlock's side to where his hands likely were, so he didn't have a chance to defend until it was already too late. The younger man still squirmed as if to fight, but John knew he'd figured out what the gift was when he fell completely still.

"John..?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"A… toy?"

"I thought it would help when I told you that one of your… er… well, one of your nappies ended up in my laundry, while I was packing for my trip," John explained. "I thought it might help communicate that I accept you, no matter what." Sherlock moved slightly, perhaps turning the dragon over in his hands. "And that if you'd like, I might be… well, open to participating." The lump of blankets let out a sarcastic bark of a laugh.

"Don't be an idiot, you don't even know what you're talking about."

John sighed, gathering what patience he had left after dealing with two airports today. "I know that you like nappies, bottles, bath toys, and children's programmes. I know that some people do these things for fun and relaxation, while others shift more fully into a younger mindset. Some add an aspect of sexual enjoyment, while many others don't. I know there are other details I don't understand yet, but from my research thus far, the only concern I have is that I might be really bad at it."

"You couldn't deal with a wet nappy," Sherlock said, still firmly under his blanket.

"Maybe, but you don't do that," John shot back.

"How do you know?"

"Doctor, remember?" John answered. "If that were going on in this flat, I'd have noticed. You might be able to conceal the odour from others, but not me."

"Always something," Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock?" John asked after a moment of waiting. "Sherlock, I came home early to be with you, I brought you a dragon, I researched, I didn't tell you I knew about this until I was sure I could honestly make this offer… could you at least come out of the blanket?" Slowly, painfully slowly, the blanket slid down, exposing Sherlock's tousled curls. He emerged from his hiding place by sitting up against the headboard, the blanket still covering his bent knees and the dragon tucked into the V formed by his stomach and thighs.

"I'm sorry that it happened this way," John said. "I'm glad I know this about you, but it should have been yours to tell me, in your own time. And you have every right to keep this as something you do on your own, but if you'd like a partner, you have one." John watched quietly as Sherlock poked at the dragon's velvety little wings. He turned the toy upside-down, his face brightening at the view of the dragon's hindquarters. John was slightly concerned about that until Sherlock shoved his hand into the toy, fingers apparently finding their way into the wings to make them flap.

"It's a puppet," John said with a surprised chuckle.

"You didn't know?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. "I thought you might like it and I was in a hurry to get home." He gave Sherlock another couple minutes to think about the ways in which his life had changed in the past twenty or so minutes. "Sherlock..? Would you like to play with me, let me look after your needs?"

Sherlock looked carefully at John for a moment, then turned his attention back to the dragon, turning it so they could stare into each other's eyes. He and the dragon tilted their heads this way and that, as if conferring, then both looked towards John and nodded.

It had been an awkward journey from that point. John had no parenting instinct, it had turned out, other than the part where he desperately wanted to look after Sherlock. Sherlock had little patience with John's early inability to guess when he needed to play, and when he was just being his moody self. Sometimes they got their wires crossed, one trying to make sexual overtures that the other took as an invitation to engage in what John had learned to call non-sexual age play. But overall, John was glad for the openness which had come to their relationship.

John shook himself out of his memory, then got up from his chair. He knew what scenario he had in mind, now. From the bottom dresser drawer, he grabbed his favourite nappy, then went to find Sherlock, who rolled his eyes at the doctor. "You always bring me that one," he said with an annoyed expression, but an amused sparkle in his eyes.

"First one is likely always going to be my favourite," he answered.

Sherlock shook his head. "The first time we played, it was that blue one with the stars."

John smiled, ignoring the fact that he'd just called galaxies stars. "The periodic table one, though, was the first one I ever saw. You accidentally washed it with my underwear, although how, I've got no idea. It's sort of hard not to notice."

Sherlock shrugged awkwardly. "Maybe subconsciously, I wanted you to find out."

John blinked. "Or maybe consciously..?" he asked. Sherlock turned pink at the tips of his ears, but he didn't answer. "I'm glad you wanted me to find out, love," he said to the unspoken admission. "Come on, let's get you dressed and we can get out the Smaug and Bilbo puppets." John grinned at the speed at which Sherlock made his way to the bedroom.


	4. Break Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general-ish for non-sexual age play. There's also a cliffhanger (of a sort, anyhow) which will be resolved shortly.

John glared hard at Sherlock, an icy cold look in his eyes that made the detective forget his point in the debate. It took a moment for him to shake off the confusion brought on by that stare, before he could continue. "Jumping in front of that lorry was a perfectly reasonable tactic for getting the killer to reveal her identity," he said, continuing with just a bit less forcefulness than before, now that his momentum had been interrupted.

John opened his mouth once, twice… then shook his head. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, logic had prevailed. "I'm done," John announced. Without another word, he spun around, grabbed his jacket from the hook, and stormed out the door. The sheer shock of it left Sherlock immobilised, standing by the window, staring in utter confusion. What just happened? They'd been having a reasonable debate about work, and then… Sherlock played back the events of the past few minutes. John's hard glare… the coldness in his eyes… oh. Oh god. He was done. He'd lasted longer than anyone else, ever, but even he had finally hit his limit. And how could he not? This wonderful creature that even Jim Moriarty had figured out was Sherlock's very heart, why would he hang around with such a… Sherlock shook his head, hard. He'd always seen the rest of humanity as defective, as too willing to let emotion dictate their lives. Now, suddenly, he saw himself as the defective one. Defective, and alone.

He'd always been alone, always been comfortable by himself, but after having John's presence in his life for the past few years, being alone now felt like actual, literal torture. It felt like he couldn't breathe, like a fish being held high in the air, able to see the water but not able to reach it, as he looked down on the figure striding away from their flat. The force of the realisation hit him so hard that Sherlock rocked back on his heels. Suddenly, he was operating on some sort of autopilot, acting without conscious thought. He made his way up to John's old bedroom, which they'd since converted into a sort of playroom. He pawed through things until he found what he was after, his favourite cloth nappy. In a fit of preparedness in case he decided to use it for its intended purpose, he grabbed a disposable one as well, and put both on. In the corner of the room, he saw one of John's jumpers, probably discarded in haste, the last time they'd played one of their more adult games up here. He pulled it on, then grabbed his plush dragon.

That done, he found the box of colouring books and crayons. He'd planned to sit on the bed, but he found that he couldn't bear to be up here one more minute. Too much of "us" was up here. He carried it all back downstairs and turned on John's preferred news network. The slight scent of John was still on the jumper, just enough that if Sherlock closed his eyes, he could imagine him there, watching the news on the sofa while he supervised Sherlock's playtime.

Cold in just a jumper and nappy, Sherlock wrapped himself in John's blanket, just like John would do for him on chilly winter evenings. It wasn't remotely the same. He swore he could feel his heart not just breaking but being torn to shreds with every breath. But he would give himself this, one more evening of being John's little one, before he let go and found his way back to his independent, isolated world.


	5. Make Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general-ish for non-sexual age play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post chapter 4 a week ago, but I forgot to do it before I left for a professional conference and I really despise trying to post things on my tablet. It never ends well. So I just waited until I got home, and because I feel bad about the delay, here's the resolution to chapter 4's cliffhanger, too.

John got home about twenty minutes after he'd left in a huff. He'd planned to stay out longer, but in his rush to exit before he said something hurtful, he'd forgotten his gloves. Anyway, the frosty weather seemed to have bled the anger out of him. He drew a deep, cleansing breath and then stepped in out of the cold and made his way upstairs.

He lurched to a stop at the doorway of their flat. What he found there took his breath away in a way that even the cold air outside hadn't. Sherlock sat on the floor, wearing one of John's jumpers, wrapped in his blanket, holding the plush dragon John had given him as a symbol of both apology and acceptance, when he'd broken the news to Sherlock that John had discovered his secret. The detective looked crushed. No, not crushed. Worse than that. He looked utterly numb.

John hastily shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall where it may as he crossed the room. He dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, grabbing the younger man in a hug. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"You left," Sherlock answered, his voice breaking over the words as a sort of despairing moan escaped. He held back for just another second before the dam burst and John found himself with an armful of sobbing detective.

"Of course I did, I didn't want to say the wrong…" John's words faded as realisation hit him so hard that he rocked back slightly. "Did you think I left forever?" Sherlock nodded -- well, he moved his head up in the beginnings of a nod, before being crushed against John's chest by the doctor's strong, splayed fingers. "No, love, never," John said softly. "Never." He held his distressed partner for several minutes, until his knees began to complain about being sat upon at their age. "Come with me, love," John said softly, patting Sherlock's shoulder comfortingly. "Kangaroo time for you."

Sherlock squeezed him tight, at the mere suggestion of their unique approach to kangaroo care, the skin-to-skin holding technique that can be beneficial to premature babies. He jettisoned the blanket and pulled John's jumper off himself, revealing a badly-fastened nappy that John realised he must have put on as a sort of self-comforting tactic while John was out walking. John sighed, saddened at the thought of how completely alone Sherlock must have felt, must still be feeling. He'd planned to take his partner to the bedroom for this, but he couldn't bear to make Sherlock wait even that long. Instead, he pulled scatter pillows from the sofa and tugged his own shirt and jumper off, then shucked his jeans and eased himself down onto the floor. Sherlock crawled over him and gently lowered himself until he was laying on top of John, pulling the blanket along to cover them both.

Once settled, he drew a deep breath which gave way to a long, low moan. John wasn't sure if it was contentment or residual pain. "I left the fight, love," he said, hoping to reassure his partner. "I didn't leave you. It was our first serious disagreement as lovers, and I was afraid I'd say something horrible and hurtful. I've done it before; you know I have a bit of a temper. I never, ever want to hurt you, no matter how angry I feel. I'm so incredibly sorry for hurting you by leaving the flat. I didn't know it would make you feel like this."

"You can leave the flat if you need to," Sherlock answered, his words still shaky even though the tears had subsided. "The look on your face… it was the wrong deduction."

John nodded, pressing kisses into Sherlock's hair. "I was probably right that I was about to say something truly awful, if I looked so angry that you… that you thought that instead. Next time, I'll at least tell you I'm going for a walk." Sherlock nodded. "It's all right," John continued reassuring. "I'm here, and I'll always be here even though I need a break now and then." He patted Sherlock's bum, and noticed that it felt… different. A quick check with his finger revealed the presence of a disposable nappy under the cloth one. John closed his eyes briefly. Disposable was Sherlock's preference when he wanted the option to wet it, something he only needed very rarely. He was hurting far more than he let on, apparently. "Feeling exceptionally little tonight?" John asked, to confirm. Sherlock nodded. "Can we continue this in the bedroom?" John asked. "With a bottle and a film?"

That got the younger man to smile slightly with a nod. Big Sherlock could never be so easily entertained, but little Sherlock had a special fondness for a bottle of tea, a bit heavy on the milk and sugar, and a children's science programme while reclining against John. They made their way to the bedroom and snuggled together under the blankets, letting the closeness ease the pain of their first fight as partners.


	6. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING: This chapter has two parts.
> 
> The first part is rated general/teen for non-sexual age play and spanking.
> 
> **The second part is rated mature** (maybe even explicit, I'm not 100% sure) for sexual spanking (WITHOUT ageplay) that leads to, well, the inevitable conclusion. If you prefer to avoid sexual content, I've left a note so you can read until that point and then flee. As a reminder, some chapters will have sexual content, and they'll be marked in the same way that this one is.

John frowned slightly at the padded envelope mixed in among the rest of the post that Mrs Hudson had left in the basket. It was addressed to him, but he didn't remember ordering anything recently. He gave half-serious thought to having Molly x-ray it before opening, just in case Sherlock had finally pissed off the wrong person in his relentless eagerness to solve crimes. When he squished it slightly with one hand, however, he rolled his eyes. No, Molly wasn't needed for this one; he knew what it was already. John paused, halfway up the stairs, to open the package and confirm its contents. Yup, it was a blue spoon, in the style of a wooden spoon, but coated in soft silicone. Probably some sort of plastic inside to give it rigidity, John reasoned. When he turned it over in his hand, he nearly dropped the rest of the mail, and only barely suppressed a shocked laugh.

A message was engraved across the bowl of the spoon: Spank me, Daddy. With a little Rutherford atomic model underneath. Where the hell did Sherlock even find these things?

John sighed and continued up the stairs. They'd talked about this somewhat, and he knew Sherlock had an interest in incorporating discipline into their ageplay, for reasons both cathartic and sexual, depending on the purpose of the game. He'd tried smacking Sherlock's bum a little bit, just a sharp swat now and then. When Sherlock was in play mode, purposely goading him in a childlike manner, it had very effectively startled him out of misbehaving. Sherlock had requested a bit more than just one impulsive smack now and then, and John supposed this was his method of reiterating the request.

John opened the door to their flat and found Sherlock, rather predictably, dressed in one of his little-kid shirts, with trains printed on it. He was seated at his computer, but clearly his focus on work was merely to be productive until John got home. He'd probably checked the parcel tracking and knew it would be delivered today. "Right," John said as he deposited the rest of the post on the kitchen counter. "This came in today's mail. Did you order it?" He held out the spoon. Sherlock looked at it with a mix of embarrassment, and satisfaction with his purchase.

"Yes," he answered. John raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Daddy," Sherlock amended himself.

"And how did you pay for it?" he asked, becoming slightly suspicious when Sherlock ducked his head a bit. "Did you use your credit card?" Sherlock shook his head. "Mine?" Another negative answer. "How did you pay for this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock made a sound that, in other contexts, would have come across as dismissive or contemptuous, but in this setting, John knew to interpret it as a bit of shame at having been caught. "Mycroft," the younger man answered after a moment.

John rolled his eyes, yet again. "I should invite him over here to use it on you," he groused. Sherlock's eyes went wide with surprise at that. "I won't," John said. "But I am going to use it, and then you're going to apologise and pay him for it. Come lay across my lap." John really had no idea what he was doing, but after Sherlock had asked for discipline to be part of their activities, he'd checked out enough spanking porn to at least know how to start. Sherlock stared at John from his place at the computer, then quickly saved his file and scrambled to stand next to John. He eased himself down, gracefully pushing his trousers down as he went. John wasn't surprised to see the training pants underneath, the ones he'd bought so Sherlock could, essentially, nappy himself without assistance if needed. He was, however, surprised to be presented with a bare bottom; they hadn't really discussed how this should go and he hadn't even considered the possibility.

"You'll have to help me learn how to do this," John admitted, suddenly realising there might be several things he didn't know about this.

"Not over a thick nappy, for a start," Sherlock answered with just a bit more sarcastic tone than John liked. The doctor responded with a firm, open-handed swat that made Sherlock gasp in surprise and then make a happy sound.

"What will it look like when I'm doing it right?" John asked as he gave a couple of test flicks with the spoon in his hand.

Sherlock moaned, his face buried in the sofa cushion. John smiled at that. His lover was laying across his lap, with thick, childish training pants bunched around his legs, but being asked his expectations was what embarrassed him. "Squirming and complaining, and letting you be fully responsible for making me endure it," he answered. "No tears, that would be entirely too much."

John hummed thoughtfully, then began with a cautious smack to Sherlock's left cheek. A pink circular imprint appeared almost as quickly as his partner's whimper of… pleasure or dismay, John wasn't sure which. Maybe both, he considered as he drew back and left a matching pink mark on Sherlock's right cheek. The spoon was just the right size to mimic the force of his hand, he observed as he worked on creating an even layer of pink skin. It definitely fell on the less-severe end of the spectrum, which meant that the wriggling boy on his lap was unhappy about being disciplined, more than anything. John continued, focusing just above the crease between his bottom and thighs, drawing whines and apologies from his boy as he worked. Suddenly the "sorry, Daddy" gave way to a sharp "John!", and he froze.

"All right?" John asked.

Sherlock gave a harsh sigh, but he nodded. "Bit too close to my limit."

"Sorry," John answered almost automatically. "It'll probably take a few tries before I can see that coming, and stop in time."

Sherlock nodded. "You'll get better. It's jarring to have to pull myself back out of that space, but it's all right."

"Good, otherwise?" John asked.

Sherlock made a thoughtful sound. "In the future, I would prefer more talking from you."

"Talking how?" John asked, not terribly thrilled for the criticism, but accepting the need for some constructive feedback. Again, Sherlock blushed and squished his face against a scatter cushion.

"Daddy things," he answered unhelpfully.

John rolled his eyes, and tried to think back to what he remembered from the spanking porn he'd watched. Most of the phrases used there would be awful in this context, but some… "Like saying you've been naughty, and that being sorry won't make me stop?" he suggested. Sherlock turned an even brighter shade of red, but he nodded. John chuckled at that. "All right. If you'd like, we can practice again at bedtime, but right now, you need to apologise to Mycroft and make arrangements to pay him for your new toy." Sherlock grumbled, but a gentle swat with the spoon had him scrambling to text Mycroft. A moment or two later, John received a text.

_I saw the purchase on my account days ago. Provided that it's used to improve his behaviour, no repayment is needed. Fair trade, in my opinion. MH_

John merely snickered.

\---

**As mentioned in the summary, we're now moving into the second part of the chapter with sexual content. If you prefer to skip that part, now's the time!**

\---

After John had cleaned his teeth and stepped out of the bathroom for Sherlock to do the same, he noticed that his partner had made additional preparations for bedtime, beyond changing into pyjamas -- the blue spoon was laying on John's pillow. Well then. "Do you want to be changed afterwards?" John asked. When no answer came, he leaned partway into the bathroom and found Sherlock hunched over the sink, brushing his teeth like his life depended on it. And blushing, which was apparently today's Thing To Do. John sighed. As much as he enjoyed a good puzzle, some days, he just wanted things to be easy. "I haven't said no to anything yet, so you might as well tell me what you want."

Sherlock finished up, turning around to face John as he dried his hands and face. He leaned back against the sink and looked down. John followed his gaze.

"Ah," he said, not knowing quite how to respond to the fact that Sherlock was so turned on by the idea of another practice spanking that his length was peeking out from the button fly of his pyjama trousers. "So…"

"Not why I want it for age play," Sherlock answered before John could figure out how to delicately ask the question. "I want that to be hard and a bit unpleasant."

"And this..?"

"Gentler, and more fun? With touching?" John stared at his partner for a moment.

"I'm not sure this will work for me, but I'm willing to try it and see," he finally answered.

Sherlock pounced him with a brief hug, then threw himself down on the bed, pyjamas already in a pile on the floor. "I'll make sure it works for you!" he announced. John chuckled and shook his head, but… well, how bad could a thing be when sex was involved, really? So John stripped and climbed up on the bed -- and yelped in surprise when Sherlock's hand wrapped around his not-particularly-hard length. He very quickly figured out what Sherlock meant when he said he'd make sure it works for John, as his partner stroked and squeezed him with every swat. And God help him, John could feel desire starting to unfurl and grow like a vine through him, working its way from that little spot near the base of his spine until it had spread throughout his body, and each smack of the spoon against Sherlock's pink bum drew lustful moans from the both of them.

On a whim, John grabbed some lube from the lotion pump on the nightstand and eased a finger in Sherlock's entrance in between swats. The sudden increase in moaning was almost as impressive as the tight muscles clenching around him. Suddenly, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to recline and sit Sherlock on him, watching the desire in his face and feeling his muscles contract around John's cock with every slap of the spoon.

He quickly added a second finger, wondering if he could just skip the third one tonight. Sherlock had requested penetration the night before, which usually made things easier the second day, but sometimes he was too sore for a second round so quickly. To John's pleasure, Sherlock reared up and pressed into his hand in a rush to accept the offered second finger. "Yeah?" John asked his apparently eager partner.

"Yes, please," Sherlock responded. "Right now, please, please." John chuckled. It wasn't like Sherlock to ever use the p-word, but… in the bedroom, he could be coaxed into it, rather readily.

Sherlock whimpered unhappily as John pulled away, but once he saw the older man reclining against the pile of pillows, he scrambled to climb on top, and before John even quite knew what was happening, he was fully within Sherlock's tight heat, both of them groaning at the sensation. It was so good, every time Sherlock wiggled this way or that, settling down and rearranging his overly long legs until he was comfortable. And then he started in earnest, leaning forward just enough to let an inch of John's length slide out, only to force himself down hard, forcing John as deep as possible, flinching at the delicious ache it created to be so unbelievably full.

A moment later, John suddenly remembered his original plan, and he gave a careful test swat, ensuring that he could reliably find Sherlock's arse in this situation. And oh dear sweet baby Jesus, the sounds his lovely detective made as he squeezed so tight that John damn near came right then and there… John couldn't imagine spanking Sherlock without getting instantly hard, ever again. How had he not known it could feel like this? The second swat caused Sherlock to cry out and wiggle, thrusting John into him so incredibly hard. "This isn't going to last long if you keep doing that," John said.

"You're the one doing the spanking," Sherlock pointed out, "not me. But it's all right, I'm a bit sore anyway. Keep going."

John was a bit sad to hear that; he could drag this out for hours, and still not get enough. But Sherlock was sore, and if he was honest with himself, John was tired, so, short and sweet, it would be. He switched the spoon to his other hand and landed another swat, firm but not too hard. Sherlock gasped and rocked hard again, and this time John used the spoon as Sherlock pushed down, encouraging him to raise up again. It only took three or four more thrusts like this before John could hold back no longer. Quickly, before he could soften and slip out of his lover's body, he grabbed at Sherlock's cock and landed a few quick swats as he stroked, until he'd dragged his partner to the inevitable point of completion as well. Sherlock collapsed to the side, avoiding the mess on John's stomach as he lay in the pillows, moaning in residual pleasure.

"So… yes, to that?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

John snickered. "Yes," he answered. "Very definitely, we can do that again whenever you'd like."


	7. Your Friend Told You About a New Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated EXPLICIT for sexual activity blended with age play. As long as all parties are consenting and enjoying themselves, Sherlock hasn't got any strong opinions about mixing the two ideas. If you do, however, feel free to skip this chapter. He won't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit experimental, even for me. I'm not sure it's worked, but eh, whatever. It was interesting to write.

Sherlock lurched to a stop when he entered the flat. John was giving him that look, the one that meant he wanted to try something, and was wondering if Sherlock would be open to participating. There was a time when he could figure out what John had in mind just by observing the clues. As their relationship became increasingly more involved, though, the number of possibilities became enormous, and Sherlock was less able to identify what the new idea was. Something sexual, yes, he could tell by John's pupils and respiration. But he was holding himself in a more authoritative manner, as if he had a new idea for their, er, age-related roleplay interactions.

One thoughtful moment later, realisation dawned. John had a new idea to blend the two. He felt the stirrings of interest, considered what else was on his to-do list for the day, and decided that yes, he had time and inclination to try something new. Cataloguing drywall samples was important, but John's idea was more fun. "All right," Sherlock said in answer to the question John likely didn't even know he'd asked. "What do you have in mind?"

John flushed bright pink, stuttering for a moment. "Something I saw suggested online," he answered. "It involves… er, both little and sexual themes."

Sherlock grinned at his partner's awkwardness. When John felt nervous about bedroom ideas, it indicated a high probability that his idea was exceptionally creative and enjoyable. "When can we try it?" he asked. John's eyes went wide for a moment, then he gestured towards the bedroom in a wordless answer. Right now. Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up, then followed John to the bedroom where the elder man stripped hastily and sat on the bed, legs spread wide.

John patted the space between his thighs. "Undress, then lay right here, face down, with your legs over mine." A sort of wheelbarrow position, Sherlock's memory supplied as he complied. Already, his interest was blooming from a slight stirring to a full-on erection. He'd noticed the assortment of toys on the nightstand, so he had some inkling of what John had in mind, and while he wasn't sure how ageplay factored into this game, he was eager to find out. Something new to catalogue in his memory always excited Sherlock in a way that very little else did.

He wasn't the least bit surprised when he settled into position and almost immediately felt the sharp sting of a silicone kitchen spoon impacting his arse. John seemed to have developed a preference for that particular implement in the few months since Sherlock had bought it. And he wasn't the only one who favoured it, Sherlock noted as he heard his own eager moans build up quickly in response to being thoroughly spanked. Long before he was done enjoying that sensation, though, John stopped.

Sherlock wanted to complain, but he'd seen in John's mannerism that he had planned an entire encounter, so the detective forced himself to wait quietly. A moment later, he was rewarded with the cool, wet drizzle of lubricant between his cheeks, followed quickly by the toy he both loved and hated most. Sherlock had bought it shortly after stumbling upon the idea that he might be gay. To experiment with the hypothesis, he'd acquired a short, slender dildo with an appropriately large, safe base, that he could use to simulate penetrative sex. It had taken him five minutes to decide that yes, he was very much gay, and about ten minutes to decide that he needed something bigger. But that toy had become something of a favourite because of its diminutive size. It was easy to tuck into his clothes and because it lacked the narrow neck of a typical plug, it would slip in and out as he moved. John, when he'd discovered the toy's almost-exhibitionist possibility, decided that he liked teasing Sherlock with it, and several of their cases had been solved in spite of (or possibly with the help of) a bright blue piece of silicone prodding at the detective's prostate under his clothes.

Sherlock moaned eagerly at the intrusion today, then shuddered as it brushed along his most sensitive spot, raising up onto his knees to encourage John further. Instead of continuing, however, John used the opportunity to shove a nappy under the younger man. What the… suddenly Sherlock remembered John saying that he wanted to blend the two types of game they often enjoyed. Er… this wasn't what he'd thought John meant, honestly. He sort of expected John to use a soother as a gag to muffle his cries of pleasure, or… well, something other than this. Instead, he found himself pushed back onto the bed, still face down, as skilful hands secured his nappy around him, forcing his hard, leaking cock against his belly in the process. Sherlock moaned in frustration with this turn of events, and was rewarded with a sharp slap on his thigh.

"Get up and come with me," John instructed. He led as Sherlock waddled more than walked back to the living room, whimpering as every step shifted the thick cloth and allowed the toy to slide in and out of his body. John sat in his chair and guided Sherlock to sit on his lap, facing him. Sherlock was familiar with this pose; he often sat this way on John's lap after a case, when physical and mental exhaustion pushed him too far and he needed time to find his balance. But, here and now? He paused for a moment before curiosity provoked him to obey as if he were a young child, not happy with John's demands but lacking the authority to do any different. He knelt straddling John's lap and lowered himself down, moaning deeply at the sensations caused by both the toy pressing into him and the nappy pulling tight across his hard cock. Sherlock gave an experimental thrust with his hips, then collapsed against John's chest at the sensation of being fucked by the toy. This was something altogether different from anything they'd ever tried before.

"You can rock as much as you like," John instructed, "in fact, I expect you to. But you may not come until I say so." Sherlock groaned, soft and low, and obeyed John's request, working to get as close to John's own cock as he rubbed himself this way and that.

It only took a few minutes to turn Sherlock into a mewling, shuddering mess as he teased himself on John's lap while the elder man looked on. He could tell by John's eyes that he was thoroughly enjoying the show. "I need to come," Sherlock said, getting a stern look from John in reply.

"Not yet," John said. "When I decide you've had enough of this, you're going to come bent over this chair with my cock up your arse." The thought was enough to make Sherlock moan.

"Please," he whimpered a moment later as John's hand came between them to stroke his restrained cock. His movements had slowed drastically as he fought to hang on. "Please, Daddy," he said, then looked up in shock. He'd called John that before, but usually only when he felt unusually little. Never had he said such a thing in a sexual context, ever. To his great surprise, John smiled encouragingly.

"Not yet," he answered. "You like this too much to stop yet, don't you?" Sherlock sighed in frustration, but he nodded. He didn't want to stop, not really. This was too intriguing, too different. "Use your words," John instructed.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I like it too much to stop," he said, then paused when John gave him a disapproving look. What now?! Oh. Oh god. "Yes, Daddy," Sherlock answered, drawing John's smile back onto his face. "I like it when you play with me." John continued stroking him, his other hand reaching back to play with the base of the toy through his nappy as he spoke softly, whispering dirty things into Sherlock's ear, sweet filthy comments about the variety of ways in which Daddy loves making him happy, until Sherlock was nearly sobbing with need. Once he was sure that he was about to push his lover to the point of no return, John unfastened Sherlock's nappy and threw it and the toy aside. Quickly, they changed position so that Sherlock was kneeling on the chair, bent over with John buried fully up his arse, pounding hard and fast the way they both loved it. Sherlock let his head fall forward, accepting the rough thrill of John pushing him to climax. As soon as Sherlock howled his completion, John rammed hard into him and held still, pulsing into his body. Sherlock leaned against the chair for several long minutes, catching his breath.

"Good?" John asked after a few moments, once he'd regained the power of speech. "Not too weird, was it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Wonderful," he answered. Perhaps too weird for others, but Sherlock's personal criteria for a good experience was simply that all parties involved gave consent and enjoyed the proceedings. Thus, he was pleased with the results of John's experiment. "When can we do it again?" he asked.

John laughed gently. "Give me a couple hours. Maybe we can try some other things next time."

"You have other ideas, also?" Sherlock asked, only mildly surprised.

"It was a rather informative website," John answered with a grin.


	8. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING: Mature (well, somewhere between teen and mature, maybe) for non-sexual spanking as the primary age play element.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now, of the 50 chapters, I have about 30 written and 10 more planned out. I started this as just a series of loosely related scenes and who cares about any continuity errors. However, they have evolved into an actual, coherent story, with a conclusion and everything. I keep having to rearrange chapter order and add extra details here and there to tell the story properly, and many times that means a chapter that's not currently finished is getting pulled to the front of the queue. Hence, more posting delay than I'd intended for this work.

Breaking with tradition, John led the way away from the police station. He flagged down a taxi, but instead of climbing in first, as Sherlock would do, he opened the door and gestured for the detective to get in. Sherlock frowned but climbed into his preferred seat and John followed him in, sitting facing him. Sherlock took the opportunity to evaluate the situation. Pulse, posture, pupils, tense facial muscles… everything pointed to John being angry with him -- no, not angry. Livid.

Why livid? Sherlock mentally reviewed the past hour, searching for causes. Nothing came to mind. He'd investigated, caught clues the police missed, as usual, and passed his leads on to them. He'd made a mental note of two experiments he'd want to run in the future, when he could get the necessary body parts, and that was all. Maybe he was angry at someone else, instead. Sherlock began reviewing other people's behaviour. Lestrade… no, they'd commiserated a bit, and Lestrade had brought coffee to share. Coffee isn't John's favourite, but he appreciated it just the same. Donovan? No, she was on holiday in the south of France. That irritating bloke from the coroner's office? No... what about… Anderson, yes. He'd been in such rare form that Sherlock had had to tell him off more viciously than usual today.

Sherlock blinked. Oh bollocks. John wasn't mad at Anderson. He was mad at Sherlock for putting him in his place when nobody else would. But why? His thoughts were interrupted by the lurching sensation of the cab stopping, followed by the chill of outside air rushing in as John flung the door open. They were home. John was still uncharacteristically leading the way, while also watching to ensure that Sherlock followed. It was a quasi-controlling disposition that he found a bit attractive, and yet it set his nerves on edge. He watched warily as John peeled off his outerwear and put everything away with just a touch more precision than usual. Controlling and authoritative, like he was tapping into his former life in the military. Like he was… oh God.

Like an angry parent, Sherlock realised at almost the last moment, before John plopped down in the centre of the sofa and pulled Sherlock to lie face-down over his lap. Sherlock gave an undignified squawk as John wrestled his trousers down. Yes, definitely like an angry parent. Damn, what he would give for wide hips right now, that would have made the trouser-removal task a lot tougher.

"I will tolerate you and Anderson bickering like schoolboys," John said, his voice low and almost dangerous. "But you will not resort to name-calling or verbal abuse, Sherlock. That is beyond the pale." Without any further warning, his hand came down on Sherlock's bum, hard. The detective blinked in surprise at this turn of events. It wasn't the first time John had put him over his lap like this, but it was the first time he'd done it to Big Sherlock. And, it was the first time it had been for a real reason, instead of because Little Sherlock had knowingly provoked him, or as a bit of sexy-time role play.

John continued raining down swats, slow like he did when Little Sherlock misbehaved, but quite a bit harder. The detective tried to hold back, but after only a few such swats, a displeased whine escaped. "We do not use name-calling in a professional setting," John lectured in between smacks. "That's something children do, and only ill-behaved children who need a spanking, at that."

Sherlock squirmed slightly, feeling both physically and mentally uncomfortable with this situation. "You may behave like an undisciplined child at home, within the framework we've established," John continued, "but not in public, and certainly not at work. What if someone other than Anderson had heard you, and reported it? What if they'd reported Lestrade, for allowing his staff to work in an abusive environment? You will not jeopardise Greg's job like that, not after all he does for you."

Oh. Oh! Suddenly, Sherlock understood. John wasn't mad at him for his opinion of Anderson, or even for putting the irritating man in his place. He was mad about the way he'd gone about it. Sherlock didn't have any particular problem with his approach, but, he had to admit, John's lessons on considering the unintended effects of his actions had been starting to take root over the past few months. He could have hurt his career… Lestrade's career... John's. He could accept the risk of hurting his own future by mouthing off, but his friend's future, his partner's future… those were sacrosanct.

Sherlock blew out a sigh, and with it went muscle tension and the sense of resentment and… and something that he couldn't quite put words to. He disapproved of John's approach, but he had to acknowledge that he deserved it. Or some sort of reprimand, anyway. He thought briefly of apologising but elected not to. Too many signs of remorse and John might stop, before the punishment properly fit the crime. Instead, Sherlock held as still as he could, allowing himself to feel and accept the building heat across his bum, the surprising depth of sting that John was applying to the tissue. His hand must be getting sore, Sherlock mused, then flinched at the sense of guilt he felt for causing that. He wished he could suggest that John fetch a tool to make it easier on himself, but he didn't want to interrupt. When he realised that his feet had started to move in response, to make small yet very definite kicking motions, Sherlock decided he'd had enough. "You're right, John. I'm sorry." And to his relief, the spanking stopped. "I should never have behaved like that; I should have kept my mouth shut out of respect for Lestrade, if not for everyone else in the room. I'm sorry."

"Thank you," John said softly. "Now that you've realised that, we can finish." Wait, what? Finish?! Sherlock twisted around to stare at John in shock, just in time to see his partner retrieve a… what was that? Too thick to be a ruler, no curvature of a spoon… oh, a paint stirrer, from the hardware store down the street. Cheap enough wood to be a giveaway item, unlikely to be any worse than the ruler a teacher had once used on him, with spectacularly laughable results. Sherlock turned back around. He'd accept it, if that's what John needed to do, to feel like the lesson had been properly taught.

The paint stirrer landed across his tender, reddened skin. Yeowch! Wrong! So very wrong, so completely not like a ruler! Sherlock yelped and rolled away from John, as best he could on his lap, with the elder man's free hand trying to keep him in position. "John, no!" he yelped, one hand already reaching back to rub at the painful stripe.

"You realised what you'd done wrong five minutes ago, yet you waited to apologise until now," John said calmly. "That's good, I'm proud of you for accepting your punishment. But I want to ensure that the lesson sticks. Just two more, all right?" Sherlock eyed him for a moment, then resumed his prior position. He really did deserve it, and John wasn't being unreasonable, honestly. And certainly, a man who'd endured what he had, in his life, could handle this. The second smack brought tears, prickling at the edges of his eyes. The third made him flinch hard, hard enough that a few of those tears escaped. Sherlock sniffled and rubbed his face against the nearest scatter pillow.

"Good boy," John said softly, rubbing his back the way Sherlock liked. "Let's get you tucked into bed, all right?" Sherlock wanted to refuse, but now that John mentioned it, he did feel tired… and perhaps just a bit on the little side. After a moment of internal conflict, he nodded and allowed himself to be led to bed, only interrupting to point towards the decorative box on the dresser where John kept his soothers. John was already reaching for one, and within moments Sherlock was snuggled among the blankets, calmly sucking at his camouflage soother, his plush dragon tucked under one arm.


	9. Celebrate a Major Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING: Teen/general for non-sexual age play.
> 
> Also, this was written for one of the earlier World Cup games which was played at… night... 11pm I think, so that's what I wrote it as.

At first, John wasn't sure why he was awake. Then he became aware of the shouts in the street, an exuberant roar that sounded sort of like an aged recording of Wembley Stadium on game day... sort of, anyway. He glanced at the clock. 12:36 in the morning. John groaned softly. He knew what that sound had to mean. He'd just won a bet, which meant he'd lost another one.

Sherlock's arm came out of seemingly nowhere, snaking around him and pulling him back-to-front against Sherlock's chest as the taller man's deep rumble of a chuckle enveloped John. The mere sound of it made him shiver with something that, were he not completely exhausted, would have been outright need. "England won." John hummed in acknowledgement. "I believe that means you owe me something."

John huffed with suppressed laughter at Sherlock's eager tone. He'd been sure England would lose this round, so sure that he was willing to bet against his own team in the office pool, but Sherlock had assured him (with a complex statistical explanation, heavy on the eye-rolling) that the maths supported a win. John had agreed to place his bet according to Sherlock's calculations, if Sherlock was willing to pay him back the loss, which Sherlock agreed to only if John agreed to buy him a new toy with part of the winnings.

Which was why he would have to go out to that one shop in the creepy part of town, and buy Sherlock the baby shirt and bottle he'd seen on his last trip there.

\---

"Finally!" Sherlock groused with a teasing smile when John came home, bag in hand. John rolled his eyes. His partner was wearing a dressing gown and, he could tell by the way it hung, nothing else, in anticipation of John's return.

"It takes time to find a cab in that part of town," John answered. "Can I at least wash the bottle before we use it?" He stepped into the kitchen where he found tea already waiting to be poured. John sighed with a sort of resigned contentedness. Clearly, Sherlock had been eager to play, probably for a few days. He must've held off asking for it because he'd expected to win their little bet. John quickly washed the bottle, poured the tea and milk, and put the top on. This one came with a bigger nipple than Sherlock's other one, and while John wasn't sure he'd like it, it was worth a try. The important part was the pirate print on the bottle, anyway, so of course Sherlock needed it.

The same was true of the baby shirt, and the coordinating short trousers John had bought as well, on a whim. He took the bottle and the bag into the bedroom, where his partner was already laying on a nappy. "A little impatient?" John asked as he fastened it up and then started helping Sherlock dress in the shirt.

"I've been waiting days for this," Sherlock admitted. He patted at the pirate printed on the front until he found the little sound module that made the shirt say "Arrrrr!"

John rolled his eyes. "Oh no, that's not going to get old," he commented sarcastically as he did up the snaps between Sherlock's legs. "Lift up," he said, getting a confused look from his partner, until the not-so-little pirate saw the short trousers, cut with jagged edges like a real cartoon pirate's trousers.

"Where did you get those?!" Sherlock asked excitedly as he helped John pull them on over his shirt and nappy.

"They just got it in on Tuesday," John answered. I thought you might like them."

" I do," Sherlock answered, then hopped up. "Come on, I've been -- "

"Waiting all week, I know," John answered, following Sherlock out to the sofa. The television was already tuned to a pirate cartoon show as he eased down onto the sofa and allowed Sherlock to curl up in his arms, turned just enough so he could see the screen a bit. John held the bottle to his lips and he latched on with a surprisingly loud moan.

"I like this size better," Sherlock said softly, pulling back just enough to talk. "Feels better. Can we buy another?"

"Can I just order it through the post instead of having to go across town again?" John asked. Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Later today I will," John answered. That matter settled, Sherlock snuggled a little more into his grasp, looking up at him with unfocused crystal-blue eyes that John could get lost in for days. John returned his intimate gaze for a moment, then leaned down and nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's temple before kissing his forehead gently. Clearly, John realised, Sherlock wasn't the only one in need of some playtime today. He held his little one a bit closer, scrunching down until he was half-reclined on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, focused entirely on how comfortable it was to have Sherlock in his arms.


	10. Forgot to Buy a Birthday Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated MATURE for suggestion of age play with sexual themes, but nothing happens on-screen.

John rolled his eyes when he got home from his shift at the clinic. Laying at the top of the stairs was a single helium birthday balloon tied to a gift bag. He and Sherlock had agreed when they'd entered into a romantic relationship that neither wanted birthday gifts, and he'd honoured that. He'd picked up a wholly inappropriate greeting card from an adult shop on the way home from work, signed the credit receipt (a signature for a £4 purchase?!) and the card with the shop's pen, and carried it home in his coat pocket. They'd have a nice dinner out, and then a lovely rest-of-the-evening in, and that was all the celebration they needed. Clearly, though, somebody else did not have the same agreement with Sherlock.

On a whim, John stepped back and checked the door knocker. Perfectly aligned. So the gift was from Mycroft. And he'd left it on the step rather than taking it to his little brother in person, even though Sherlock had been home working on an experiment all day. Why didn't Sherlock answer the door? No, ridiculous, of course he would have if Mycroft had knocked. The brothers had their issues, but it had been a very long time since they'd been so at-odds with each other that Sherlock wouldn't even open the door to his brother. So Mycroft hadn't knocked. Was he in a rush? The upstairs placement suggested not; if he were, he could have left it at the bottom of the stairs just as well. So he didn't think Sherlock would want to -- oh good lord, he assumed they were celebrating by going at it like rabbits, didn't he? That seemed most likely.

John checked the tag on the gift bag. _Happy birthday, little brother. We hope you and John enjoy this quite thoroughly. GL &MH._

GL? GL… G…. L…. Oh. Oh god. Lestrade had taken to leaving crime scenes in a black sedan lately. John had thought it just an unmarked police car, the kind that some supervisory-level officers drove, but now that he was thinking about it more carefully, Greg always slid into the back seat. He was… oh, god, he was… John couldn't even say it. He just picked up the gift and texted Angelo to request a particularly nice table for Sherlock's birthday (he wasn't sure what kind of celebratory pandemonium Angelo would come up with in response to that request, but he didn't care, he just wanted the turn-on of an annoyed Sherlock) and walked inside.

"Your brother left this for you," John said to the man hunched over his equipment. "Your brother and Greg... are they... dating?"

"Living together," Sherlock answered without looking up. "Lestrade moved in with him six weeks ago, John, do keep up."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, they sent a birthday present, so you should open it and then thank them." Sherlock huffed, then stopped and turned to give the gift a curious look. He wasn't all that into his birthday, but he did enjoy getting stuff. John watched with barely contained amusement as the younger man rummaged among the gift tissue concealing his gift. Sherlock snickered, then laughed outright and drew out a shirt. Specifically, it was a baby-style shirt, with the snaps between the legs, in a police car print. John simply stared, dumbfounded. Next, he showed John a plastic toy police car, complete with siren sound when he put it on the table and rolled it around. What on earth..?

But John got even more curious when Sherlock rummaged in the tissue paper to be sure he'd found everything, and froze, skin steadily flushing with a sort of embarrassment that -- no, that was arousal. And a bit of embarrassment, but mostly arousal. What the ever-loving hell had Mycroft seen fit to give to his baby brother? John leaned over to look in the bag. He burst into loud laughter when he saw what was at the bottom of the bag. The colour and shape were obviously meant to make one think of a baby's soother, but that was definitely meant for, er, a place other than Sherlock's mouth.

"How do they know..?" John asked in between bursts of laughter at the lewd toy.

"I presume it took no more than ten minutes for Mycroft's surveillance team to notify him when I first experimented," Sherlock answered. "I assumed Greg would see it on the live feed at some point after he moved in, but I didn't think it would happen so soon."

"Apparently it has," John said. "All right, that's… lovely, my friend and colleague knows I… you… fantastic."

"Our secrets are in good hands," Sherlock pointed out, "much as I hate to acknowledge that."

"Whichever of them chose this, does have good taste," John said, handling the anal plug. "It's a good size and firmness for you. All right… so… usually you should mention the exact items received, in a thank you note, but I think in light of this, you can just text them both to thank them for their thoughtful gift. Which I think you should wear to dinner at Angelo's."

"I will not eat with that shoved up my --"

"The shirt, Sherlock!" John said, laughing at Sherlock's horrified expression.

"Oh, as an undershirt?" Sherlock asked. John smiled as he caught on.

"Under the purple button-up, please," he requested. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John saw the smile as he grabbed the new gift and went to the bedroom. Requesting the purple shirt, Sherlock knew, meant sex later. The childish undershirt indicated that John was planning a nice roleplay spanking beforehand, and perhaps some other fun as well. This, Sherlock decided, was worth all of it -- both the indignity of being given such a personal gift by his brother and his, er, friend, and whatever John and Angelo had cooked up for a birthday dinner.


	11. It's (sort of) Raining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general for non-sexual age play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to have this ready until the weekend, but I've had a miserable 24 hours because school and just... snarl growl... so since I couldn't stand to look at my project today, I did this instead.

John pointedly didn't watch Sherlock give an irritated groan as he stared out the window. He kept his gaze firmly planted on his newspaper as the younger man whirled around, dressing gown swirling in the breeze far more gracefully than lightweight, shapeless silk had any business being. Admirably, he even ignored it when Sherlock bent over right in front of him, consulting a bit of newspaper that had already been read and discarded. He was doing almost as good a job at it as Sherlock was at not watching John not watching him swanning about the flat, irritation coming off in waves so thick that John was just waiting for Mrs Hudson to come up and complain about the flood of frustration raining down on her.

"What is wrong?" John asked after Sherlock made one more pass around the room.

"The forecast said rain for this morning," Sherlock answered.

"And how fortunate we are to have a lovely sunny day instead, with windows open and birds chirping," John responded.

"I was going to work on my storm drainage experiment today," came the snarky answer. "I can't very well do that with… with… that outside!"

John rolled his eyes. Leave it to Sherlock to decide that, instead of rescheduling his experiment to a rainier day, the best response was to storm about as if that would make Nature reconsider. "Play your violin," he suggested, even though he knew that suggestion would fail. Sherlock only picked it up when he craved that specific outlet, not whenever John suggested he use it as a stress reducer. Sherlock merely shot him a dumb look and moved to the kitchen to, presumably, work on other experiments while grousing.

John had one other idea for calming the detective's nearly incandescent frustration, but he hesitated to pitch his one and only idea so soon into the boredom crisis. "Mind if I do some dishes and laundry while you're in there?" he asked. Sherlock grunted, but John was pretty sure it was an agreeable grunt, which meant John could observe from nearby, at least. He went to their room and scooped up a few choice items for the laundry and dishes, then dumped his selections onto the kitchen counter. There, he sorted cups, a bottle, and soothers into the sink, then started putting nappies and toddler clothes in the washer.

"Do you have to wash that one today?" Sherlock asked when John grabbed the nappy cover with pirate hats and anchors. "I only wore it for an hour or so."

John gave Sherlock a thoughtful look, then considered the cloth in his hands. It felt clean, and it wasn't like it had been used for the manufacturer's intended purpose. "All right," he answered, tossing the garment on a nearby dining chair.

"And… and that too?" Sherlock asked when he came to the police-themed snappy… shirt thing that Lestrade had bought for his birthday.

"Planning something that can't wait until this load is dry?" John asked casually, in response. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably at that question, then shrugged and turned back to his microscope. John was fairly sure he didn't even have a slide loaded, but he said nothing as he moved on to washing Sherlock's preferred bottle and soother. When he was sure he had Sherlock's attention, as he balanced the clean items in the dish rack, that was when he pitched his suggestion for taming the detective's frustrated spirit. "Can I give you a bath?" he asked softly, making it sound like a favour for him instead of for his partner. "It's been a while since we did that… I don't want to get out of practise." Sherlock gave him an appraising look. "You weren't planning to work on that stuff today anyhow," John pointed out, gesturing at the microscope which he was still sure had no slide loaded. Then he picked up the nappy cover and shirt he'd rescued from the laundry.

The younger man's eyebrows lifted slightly, just enough that John knew he'd caught his interest. "We could use cool water, since you missed out on splashing in the puddles today," he added, just one last motivation that he hoped wouldn't tip Sherlock from maybe to no. He could tell by the momentary frown that Sherlock was onto him, but it was followed so quickly by a bright smile that John nearly literally breathed a sigh of relief.

"Warm water, but with the shower spray on?" Sherlock suggested. John smiled at that idea. Leaving the spray on meant that he wanted John to join him inside the tub, since he couldn't very well leave the curtain open to reach in and wash his boy. John led the way to the bathroom and started the tub filling, while Sherlock rummaged under the sink to find all the parts to his bath toy set, a collection of funnels, pipes, water wheels, gears… John wasn't even sure what all the parts did, but they stuck to the tiled shower wall and it was exactly the sort of bath toy that appealed to Sherlock's scientific mind.

Just a couple minutes later, the two of them were sitting together in the tub, warm water raining down lightly as Sherlock crafted an elaborate system through which to pour cupsful of water. It kept him entertained while John washed his hair, scratching gently at his scalp to provoke relaxed moans. He continued until Sherlock's hands faltered and eased into the water as he leaned fully into the scalp massage.

John chuckled lightly. His partner had a special love for being touched like this, probably from having grown up in a household where fierce independence was prized above all else. He wondered idly if Sherlock could even remember when he was young enough to require bathing assistance. Probably not, he decided. The memory wouldn't have ranked very high on his priority list for the brain he liked to treat as a hard drive. John moved on to scrubbing body parts, working his way down with a soft, just-abrasive-enough flannel. He smiled at the way Sherlock's happy sounds turned just slightly adult in nature when his bits were being washed and handled. John filed that idea away for later in the evening, perhaps.

Once they were both properly clean, John got out of the tub, wrapping a towel hastily about his waist before setting to drying and dressing his partner. Camouflage soother firmly in his mouth, Sherlock wordlessly guided John, requesting a thick nappy in his cover, the kind of bulk that usually meant he wanted to recline and be held rather than play more actively. Once he was in his shirt with the snaps done up between his legs, he made a rudimentary gesture that John knew meant "bottle".

"You want tea?" John asked. They'd tried things like juice and milk, but Sherlock preferred a bottle of not-too-hot tea, with just a little extra milk and sugar. Sherlock nodded, and John went to the kitchen to prepare tea. He caught sight of Sherlock's "mobile" on top of the refrigerator, while waiting for the kettle. The digital music box with projected light show bore almost no resemblance to the wind-up crib mobiles of John's own youth, but the high-tech toy suited Sherlock's needs. It was small and easy to tuck away, and could be passed off as part of an experiment -- how could it possibly be any weirder than eyeballs in the microwave, after all? With only a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the device to take into the bedroom.

Most of the time, Sherlock seemed perfectly happy to role-play as a child, simply for whatever sort of stress release he craved. His idea of role-play was, in John's estimation, absolutely irrational, and simply combined random things that Sherlock happened to like. He liked wearing nappies, using a soother, playing with toys marked for around ages 5-10, liked to push boundaries, sometimes solely for the exhilaration of being put over John's knee, and he was very curious about and open to sexual activity. The fact that it didn't "go together" was of no concern; the point was to have fun.

Sometimes, though, Sherlock sank more fully into a place where, instead of just playing around, he approached it as if it were the only form of communication available to express his emotional needs. Instead of it being a game they played, Sherlock seemed to just be… himself, but very young and needy. His usual adult awkwardness was expressed in a manner suited to a not-quite-toddler, and if asked his age, instead of his play-answer of saying he was four (while holding up three fingers, because, Sherlock…) he would consider the matter very carefully and then give an incredibly unhelpful answer ranging somewhere from "little" to "really, really little". Today seemed to be one of those days when he wasn't four; he was just little and desperately needy. Which meant John could discard the idea of adult activities tonight, no matter how favourably Sherlock responded to having his bits washed. A very little Sherlock didn't have any business trying to relate on such a mature level.

As if to confirm John's suspicions, he was met with round, almost nervously observant eyes as he came into the bedroom, followed almost instantly by outstretched arms reaching towards him. Yes, definitely one of those rare "little" days. John set the mobile-thing on his nightstand and turned it to Sherlock's preferred setting, a repeating classical tune with fish swimming across the ceiling, then sat on the bed and pulled his partner into his arms. Long arms thrust around John's ribcage as Sherlock squirmed into his arms, lips already searching for the bottle he'd requested.

John watched air bubbles enter the bottle, racing to the opposite end as Sherlock drained the tea slowly. He wondered idly what might have triggered this. Other than the lack of rain, the day hadn't gone badly. Neither had the one prior, really. It had been two or three cases since the last time Little Sherlock had emerged, though, he remembered. Maybe his partner's ability to deal with his feelings had simply reached its limit, and today's frustration pushed him to that place where he needed to be nurtured and looked after while he focused on the challenge of simply being. If that was true, then John was very, very thankful indeed for the lack of rain. It could be frustrating sometimes to deal with this, but to be Sherlock's safe place, to be the one person who'd won his trust to this great depth… there wasn't a word for how honoured John felt to be that chosen person.


	12. Rebound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RATING: General/teen for non-sexual age play. Again. I really do have more adult-rated stuff than this... it's just not ready yet!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school project is two days overdue (oh wait, midnight's happened, 3 days overdue), this professor sucks, I still hate everything, grumble grumble... so here, have a chapter.

John shot a wary look at the clock as he realised his shift was nearly over. Usually he was all too happy to go home, but usually, going home wasn't quite so… fraught. For one thing, going home was usually an escape from work rather than an over-the-top recreation of it.

In fairness, Sherlock's cold was actually rather severe, and as his partner, it was sort of John's job to look after him when needed. Anyway, it had probably been John's fault in the first place, since it occurred in just about the right timeframe after his last patient of the day had been someone with a similarly severe cold. It wasn't the first time that he'd brought an infection home, but it was the first time it had hit Sherlock harder than could be covered over with a packet of day nurse and an extra box of tissues. John had even stayed home from work for three days to look after him. One would think that, given their relationship included some occasional ageplay aspects, this wouldn't be that big a deal, but a cranky, miserable Little Sherlock was nowhere near as adorable as a needy, cuddly Little Sherlock, John had discovered.

Instead of spending three days watching television and snuggled on the sofa, he'd spent most of that time running back and forth from the sofa to the kitchen to the shops to Mrs Hudson's, and back again. Within minutes of providing Sherlock with ice cream or soup or a hot bath, the soothing properties ceased to work, and he needed something else instead. Even nightfall did nothing to ease the burden; as much as Sherlock tried to be miserable quietly, John found sleep as elusive as it was for his partner. Today Sherlock had assured him that he should go to work, but John had misgivings and the entire day had an undertone of worry to it, to the point that he half dreaded going home. The entire day, he'd half-expected to come home and find Sherlock laying on the floor by the bed, in a tangled heap of blankets, miserable, hungry, and resentful of his clinic job.

So he was relieved when he got home to find Sherlock on the sofa, reclined against some pillows, his water pitcher half-empty and the coffee table scattered with what looked like the remnants of chicken soup from the local Jewish deli. Not great, but clearly he was able to look after himself. "Looks like you're finally rebounding," John commented with an encouraging smile. Sherlock nodded, then coughed miserably. "More day nurse?" John offered. Last night, the cough suppressant in the common cold remedy had finally begun to overpower the cough instead of the other way round, which was a relief to both of them.

"And a soother?" Sherlock asked in reply. John nodded, then gathered up not just the pills and soother, but fresh pyjamas, a nappy, and a book Sherlock had been reading at bedtime, before he got sick. Usually when the younger man asked for any one of those things, he wanted all of them but wasn't quite sure how to communicate that. He wasn't surprised when Sherlock, seeing the items in his hands, kicked off the blankets and started undressing immediately. "I've missed this," he commented as he reached for a partially-filled water bottle to take his pills.

"Why didn't you ask for it sooner?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Too miserable to enjoy it until now anyway." John sighed, but he understood. The aches had been so severe that for two of the past three days, Sherlock couldn’t stand to be touched; even the soft blanket keeping him warm was also offending his pain receptors. Now that he was on the mend, though, he was all too eager to present himself for John's attention, doing what he could to help with nappy fastening and dressing in pyjamas. It probably helped that John had brought his favourite set, an oversized shirt imprinted with Sherlock's own crayon sketch of a melatonin molecule and a coordinating pair of flannel trousers. John was rewarded with a lapful of overly tall little boy as soon as he sat down on the sofa, and an elbow to his shoulder as Sherlock wriggled and arranged himself to lay against John's chest.

"Ree?" Sherlock half-slurred from behind his soother.

"You want me to read your book to you?" John asked with an indulgent smile. Of course that's what Sherlock wanted. "You must be feeling a lot better, finally. All right," he said, opening the book to the bookmarked page. "Forensic mapping of criminal social networks," he read, then paused to press a kiss into his partner's hair. It had been a truly awful cold, and he couldn't have been happier to finally see Sherlock on the rebound from it.


	13. Prom Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general for non-sexual age play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take just a moment to thank everyone for your comments, kudos, and also your reading along quietly (I get it, I do that too, sometimes!). This was a hard story to decide to share, and there are lot of bits coming up that I'm still... er... not sure if I should tone down before posting. I am so, so... I'd like to say humbled but if I'm perfectly honest, I'm utterly stunned by the response. Thank you so much, and I'm glad you're enjoying it.

John smiled politely as he gazed around the room. One way or another, Sherlock's work with the Met, or service to the royal family, or just his luck in having been born a Holmes, led to them being invited (ahem, _obligated_ ) to attend at least one Christmas charity ball. By his own estimation, John was probably the lowest-class person to ever attend these things in the entire history of Christmas charity balls, and while he'd learned the required etiquette somewhere along the way, he never felt altogether comfortable in this environment. It was an awful lot of reminding himself to smile politely while ignoring the urge to tie his bowtie around the nearest potted ficus.

The room was lovely, he observed. Glittering fairy lights were seemingly everywhere, and the one Christmas tree in the room was done in that style of under-decorated that made it all look incredibly expensive. The champagne was even more lovely, and currently, it was the thing getting him through this evening. That, and Greg Lestrade being stuck serving as the requisite date for his preferred Holmes brother. John still couldn't quite believe that Mycroft had given him the time of day, simply because John hadn't ever thought of Mycroft as someone who perceived humans as sentient beings. There was no more deserving human than good-hearted Greg, overflowing with integrity and just the right amount of compassion, but it had still been quite the shock.

And yet, it was a relief as well, since it meant that Greg would entertain John in between the formalities of being introduced to everyone in the world. And naturally, even though they both knew it wasn't proper at a charity ball, their discussion would turn to the more comfortable topics of work. Which inevitably attracted Sherlock who, while perfectly comfortable in this environment, had no understanding of the social customs and preferred to do his own thing.

"How's my face?" Sherlock asked, turning so John could see where Molly had expertly used makeup to cover over a bruised cheek and a moderately-alarming gash under his chin. All she could really do with the gash was glue it shut, but she'd done an admirable job concealing the bruising.

"I would avoid looking up, and sit down to talk with anyone shorter than I am," John answered, "but Molly's cover-up is holding."

"You should be knighted for that," Greg interjected, holding his glass up as if to toast Sherlock. "What little I know of the mission Mycroft sent you on suggests that you saved hundreds of lives today."

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a disdainful chuckle. "Knighted? Bite your tongue! Oh, salmon puffs." With that, he was gone as quickly as he'd arrived, in hot pursuit of a tray of hors-d'oeuvres.

Greg stared at the retreating figure, frowning slightly. "Tell me he's not wearing a nappy under that tuxedo," the elder man begged. John blinked, twice, in surprise. He hadn't been particularly surprised that Mycroft had discovered Sherlock's interests… well, his interests, as well, he supposed. And given that he and Greg were romantically involved, it made sense that Greg had stumbled upon this information as well. But the idea that this was something they discussed… that was a bit weird to John.

"He's not wearing a nappy under that tuxedo," John said flatly. Also, he wasn't that great at lying to Greg.

Greg groaned softly in frustration. "Seriously, here?" he griped.

John shrugged. "It's Sherlock. To him, it's a perfectly valid choice of pants, equal to boxers or briefs. He felt it would be comfortable." John chuckled as Greg shook his head in some odd mix of surprise and not-surprise.

"Now I'm going to be wondering if he's wearing at crime scenes." Greg said. John gave him an apologetic sort of smile. Greg blew out a weary sigh. "I don't have to wonder, do I? No, don't answer that."

"Care to step out for a bit of fresh air with me?" John asked. "You look like you need to walk this one off before you can be social again." Greg grunted, an irritated, dismayed sound, but he also identified the nearest smoking patio and started towards it, beckoning John to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a truly terrifying final exam to deal with this week, so if you feel so inclined, I welcome all prayers, good thoughts, burnt offerings to the barbecue gods, whatever floats your boat. I'm not picky.


	14. He Said He Loves You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He said he loves you, and you're not ready to say it back.
> 
> Rated teen/general, for non-sexual age play elements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story comes after John has said "I love you" to Sherlock, maybe a few days after. I didn't write it into the story because I'm wildly good at writing magical "falling in love" moments and horrifically sucky at writing the kind of angst that someone might experience if they aren't ready to say it back. In my mind, I picture John saying it while half-asleep and he doesn't notice it but Sherlock is a complete nervous wreck for hours after, because he's not evaluated the situation enough to be 100% confident that he can say it back with the appropriate intent and connotations.
> 
> I didn't expect this chapter to be ready until Sunday or so, but I did my final exam today (won't get my final marks for another week, argh) so I decided to get this finalised as a thank-you for your good wishes and thoughts for this stuff. One more assignment to do, and then for one glorious week, I'm going to work on this story in celebration of being between terms. Yes, one week. And then 9 weeks at double the workload of this term. Because I am just as crazy as Sherlock is, evidently.

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft said, making Sherlock realise that he'd been ignoring the conversation in favour of pondering an idea for an experiment that he might like to perform during the next heat wave. "When will you and John embrace reality and marry?"

Er… all right, clearly he'd been thinking for a while. Last time he'd checked in on the conversation, Mycroft and Lestrade had been discussing with John the pros and cons of due process, which for reasons Sherlock would never fathom, the lot of them found to be a wildly interesting topic.

"I have no plans to marry anyone," Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's obvious that you do," Mycroft answered, then paused, giving Sherlock a careful look up and down, that always made Sherlock feel like he was standing naked in the room, without even his bedsheet. The elder brother shifted awkwardly in his armchair. "John's said he loves you, you don't yet feel comfortable returning the sentiment, and now you feel insecure about your place in his life because you've let it go on for… an entire week, really, Sherlock?"

"Sentiment is an evolutionary error," Sherlock answered. "It is weakness, dressed up to be more palatable to the masses."

Greg huffed as if to start arguing, but Mycroft held up a hand, stopping his lover. "Sherlock," he said in a gentle tone that Greg had never heard him use outside the bedroom, "much as it pleases me to know that my words have such pride of place in your life, I was twelve years old when I said that. Certainly by now it has occurred to you that I was wrong." He gestured to Greg as evidence that his own perspective had shifted.

Greg flinched slightly, first at the flicker of betrayal that came across Sherlock's face at the thought of Mycroft having led him wrong, then at the empathetic pain on John's face as he stood in the doorway behind Sherlock. Greg bit back the urge to rush in and try to help his partner's little brother; helping him overcome this was really a job for John, and possibly Mycroft. Instead, he texted John. _If you want to talk, ever, I'm available._

A few minutes later, he got a reply. _Maybe. I'll let you know. Thanks._

\---

"You don't have to say it back if you don't want to," John said softly as he entered Sherlock's bedroom later that evening, bottle of tea in hand. Sherlock looked up from his place on his bed, and put his book down. "You don't have to do anything you aren't ready for, ever." He sat next to his partner but didn't move to hold him just yet, instead letting Sherlock approach him when he was ready.

"I'm well aware of that," Sherlock answered, his tone a bit haughty. John chose to ignore it, and merely nodded in reply. "No need to make a fuss over a simple evolutionary mishap…" he grumbled, picking his book back up, although John could tell he wasn't planning to read it.

"Love isn't an evolutionary mishap," John responded gently.

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "It is a disadvantage, a weakness, and the only reason it's survived is because it tends to lead to excessive production of offspring."

John snickered in spite of himself, at that. "Well, given that you're gay, I don't think you have much to worry about there, but has it occurred to you that the production of offspring and continuation of the genetic line is the entire purpose of evolution? The most reasonable conclusion is that it's an evolutionary advantage."

"It gives a person's enemies something easy to use against him," Sherlock fired back.

"That isn't a disadvantage of caring, Love, that's a disadvantage of the enemy's lack of caring," John answered.

"Lacking sentiment protects -- " Sherlock began, then stopped. John watched as his eyes went unfocused, staring blankly at the bed. "Someone used sentiment against him," he observed. "He was made to feel unworthy of love, and rationalised this by judging it a disadvantage that he didn't want anyway."

"If he was twelve when he taught you this, it seems likely," John answered. "I seem to recall that children were especially awful at that age." He waited a moment as Sherlock began to process this new information. "I accept you as you are, and you don't have to say or do anything you're not ready for," he reminded his partner. Sherlock nodded mutely, still staring. John followed his gaze, and realised what he was staring at. "Come here," he said softly, picking up the bottle from where he'd left it on the bed. Sherlock stared for just a second before he clambered into John's open arms.

"Thank you," he said as he took the bottle with a relieved sort of sigh.

"You're welcome," John answered. "You have no reason to doubt your place in my life. You are not required to say or do any socially-expected things. I already know how you feel; I see it in your actions. You've got a lot to think about, but I know you'll say the words when you're ready for them, and not a moment sooner, all right?" Sherlock nodded, eyelids already starting to droop in response to being held and gently rocked by his partner.


	15. Paratrooping/banging for roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general for non-sexual age play.
> 
> Just fyi, I had to check urban dictionary to figure out what this even meant in the original sexual context, and I'm still not totally sure I got it right, but whatever, it works for my story goals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It helps to know that in the original story layout for this story, I had them maintaining separate bedrooms due to differing sleep patterns and such, although I think that was never clear, and I've rearranged so many chapters that I've probably got a dozen bedroom-related continuity errors at this point. But anyway, that's the premise on which this chapter is built.
> 
> Also, I have a four-chapter story arc coming up soon which is not completed, and I am really struggling with the ageplay-related content. If anyone would care to pre-read and kick around some ideas, feel free to email me... please. My email is given in my profile. I welcome anything from quick feedback about one chapter to a full-on beta reader for this story.

John sighed heavily at the mess in the kitchen. He really wasn't in the mood for this, or really for anything, not after the long day he'd had at work. Four urinary tract infections today. FOUR of them. Were they just sending them all to him, to punish him for calling out for that case last week..? Ugh. He was exhausted just from dealing with that nonsense. Arguing with parents that their little sunshine really does need to drink water wasn't exactly his favourite part of the job. And there were two colds. One patient was relieved it wasn’t anything worse, but the other had self-diagnosed his runny nose as liver disease and was outright pissed that John was being so irresponsible as to not order additional tests. John practically snarled as he downed a glass of cranberry juice. He was really more of a breakfast-juice person, but after four UTI's he was feeling just a touch paranoid. And tired. Had he mentioned tired?

He drew a deep breath and reminded himself that yes, he really did want this mundane job that pays the rent and is at least one nice, normal, mundane thing he could talk about at dinner parties instead of having to choose between sitting silently and telling a too-good-to-be-true (or worse, too-gory-to-be-appropriate) Sherlock story. All he wanted to do was to collapse in front of the television for a bit, then go upstairs and pass out on his bed. And then Sherlock popped around the corner into the kitchen, blue "volume control" soother covering his lips.

"Not tonight, Sherlock, please," John practically moaned. That was just the cherry on top of this irritating day, right there.

Sherlock took the soother out of his mouth, staring hard at John. "Bad day," he said. "Urinary tract infections that have given you sympathetic symptoms. You've been drinking extra water all day, and all that cranberry juice… you'll be up and down the stairs half a dozen times tonight, for the loo."

"Don't remind me," John grumbled, sipping at a glass of water to wash down the cranberry juice.

"Or you could do this with me instead," he said, shaking his soother by its ring, "and stay in my room tonight." John blinked, shocked. The detective had made it clear when they'd first taken their partnership to the next level, that he needed to sleep alone. What little sleep he did get, needed to be undisturbed, and anyway his odd hours would irritate John. But tonight, to spend it downstairs next to the bathroom… "I won't even play my violin tonight," Sherlock added.

John sighed. Sherlock's need must be pretty serious if he was willing to make so many concessions. "All right, go choose a nappy and bring it to me," he answered after a moment. Sherlock hugged John with excitement, then bounded off to his bedroom. John merely shook his head, irritated with himself that he'd just traded away a good hour or two of much-needed relaxation time, for easy access to the loo. But, well, needs must, and anyway, it had been his choice to choose a life shuttling back and forth between the extremes of mind-numbing normality and, well, Sherlock being Sherlock. He filled his water glass and made his way to the downstairs bedroom.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he grabbed some of John's clothes from the clean laundry basket and hung them in his closet "for tomorrow". Step one of moving John into the downstairs bedroom without having to admit he was wrong about his sleeping preference was a complete success.


	16. Keeping up with the Neighbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated MATURE for not-very-explicit sexual interaction using not-very-ageplayish age play elements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's try an un-spellchecked update from my phone, not because this ever works for me, but because final class grades just got posted and MY GPA SURVIVED!!! Ok...ok I'm over it.
> 
> Going to slow down a bit because the new term starts Monday, I've got the assignment list already, and... it's long. There's a lot less time for writing and editing, at least for the first couple weeks. But we'll get there.

Sherlock smiled into the darkness of his bedroom. His plan seemed to be working well. John had stayed with him for the past six nights; tonight was number seven. And not only that, but he hadn't questioned it when Sherlock had gathered up yesterday's clean laundry and put it all away in his bedroom, his and John's things both. He'd already calculated his next move, to wash the linens during John's next clinic shift, and put John's away in the downstairs cabinet instead of remaking the bed. There was just one thing that might disrupt his plan to move John into the downstairs bedroom without him noticing…

_Thump!_

And that was it, Sherlock observed with a sigh. After several more thumps against the wall they shared with the next flat, and a couple accompanying moans, John gave an embarrassed chuckle. "Are the neighbours always this, er, exuberant?"

"Twice a week on average," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, now I know why you sleep on the sofa two or three nights a week," John responded. "What a racket. Almost enough to make me go upstairs to sleep." Sherlock fidgeted silently with the edge of the blanket, in response. That was exactly what he'd been concerned about. He might have to actually tell John he'd changed his mind about their original plan to maintain separate bedrooms. "Or we could…" John began softly.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked after an impatient moment waiting for him to finish the thought.

"No… yeah… I was just thinking… well, we could respond in kind," John said awkwardly.

"Beat them at their own game?" Sherlock asked.

"You are rather loud," John pointed out.

"Getting spanked can be fun," Sherlock answered in a sort of embarrassed, pleased tone, as if he wasn't sure whether John's observation was a compliment or not.

"Give me your spoon and turn over, then," John said in such a tone that Sherlock could practically see the eager desire in his words. "Let's show them how to do it properly."

Half an hour later, the neighbours had fallen quiet, while Sherlock had grown so loud that John felt forced to grab a soother to muffle him. Unfortunately for the neighbours, really for all of London and quite possibly the northern half of France, it turned out to only make him moan louder.


	17. Diet/Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen, sort of bordering on mature for non-sexual ageplay with some mainstream-style dominant/submissive hints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was beta read by the wonderful pluperfectsunrise, but only once, and then I did a rewrite and rushed to post because I feel bad about the long delay, so any remaining (or newly-added) suckiness is all my doing.
> 
> In related news, sorry for the long wait on this chapter. My grandparents had a bit of an emergency and since I'm the only 30-year-old I know who's lucky enough to still have grandparents, I sort of felt obligated to go help out for a bit.

John glanced up over the top of his book at Sherlock, and bit back a longsuffering sigh. He'd given his partner a full hour after waking, to start making a move towards the kitchen, but so far Sherlock had only gotten a glass of water and moved on to typing his research notes. "You need to eat," John said. Sherlock made a vague sound without taking his eyes off the surprisingly elegant and readable scrawl in his lab notebook. John waited a moment, but he hadn't really expected anything. That sound usually meant something along the lines of, "The party you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time; please try again."

"Sherlock?" John asked. No response, still. He frowned thoughtfully. It wasn't a surprise that he got no response, really. He was fairly sure Sherlock wouldn't have eaten all week if he hadn't been watching and reminding him. Suddenly, realisation hit John so hard that he nearly dropped his book. About a week ago, he'd picked up his e-reader to find that instead of the medical journals he usually read on the device, a gay ageplay romance story on his kindle, already about one-third read through. It had been an interesting read, but now, he thought back to the section he'd read as he tried to figure out what the hell was on his kindle. It had been the part of the story where the daddy character expressed a desire to take care of his boy by taking more control over day-to-day activities. Shortly after, the daddy had served a lunch of sandwich, fruit, and vegetable, all cut into finger foods, and later on, he'd ordered for the both of them at a restaurant.

John sighed. It was just like Sherlock to leave him some sort of coded message, then practically go on a hunger strike waiting for John to catch on and act on the information with which he'd been presented. "Your idea of kink negotiation is in desperate need of improvement," he muttered, completely unsurprised that Sherlock didn't seem to hear that, either. He considered the situation. Sherlock most likely wanted him to extend their ageplay games a bit further into their regular life. Realistically, it had often fallen to John to save Sherlock from himself, from nearly the day they'd met. It had frustrated John early on, but somehow, over time it had become charming. He'd gotten into medicine out of a sense of compassion and a desire to take care of others, he supposed; therefore, looking after Sherlock was not out of character for him. He loved that somehow, by some miracle, Sherlock had seen fit to entrust John with the softest, most personal parts of his very being, which contributed to his desire to look after and properly treasure the incredible gift he'd been given.

And it was just a bit hot. Even when it wasn't particularly intended to be, it was a bit of a turn-on that Sherlock wanted John to take control of their relationship in some unique ways. But, take greater responsibility for seeing that Sherlock ate, and ate decently? Did he really want to --

John rolled his eyes at himself. Of course he wanted to. He might've gravitated towards medicine to take care of others, but his interest in the army, rather like his willingness to indulge Sherlock's ageplay interest, was at least a little bit about his affinity for being in a position of authority. He loved the idea of being the one person in the universe who could bend the world's only consulting detective to his will. John fidgeted for just a moment as his thoughts finished coming together, then set down his book and made for the kitchen.

There, he rummaged in the little nooks where Sherlock tucked the plastic dishes John used to carry lunches to work. He found a bright blue bowl usually meant for salad, and one of several red forks that came with the takeout from one restaurant that evidently couldn't be bothered to count what they were putting into the bag. They looked cheerful and childlike enough, he decided. That job done, he quickly sliced half a banana into one side of the bowl, then cut up a piece of cinnamon-sugar toast and arranged it neatly in the other half. He then carried it into the next room and stood by Sherlock, who only barely noticed him before John touched a banana slice to his lower lip.

"John, what are you…"

"You need to eat," John said, using his firm-Daddy voice, the one that meant business while remaining gentle and encouraging.

"Eating is boring," he grumbled, turning back to his work.

"I can put you over my knee first, if you prefer," John said, feeling like he was standing incredibly far out on a limb. He was confident that this was what Sherlock was trying to provoke him into doing, but there was just no way to be completely sure about Sherlock. To John's relief, though, Sherlock merely glared at him as he leaned forward and gingerly took the banana bite between his lips. He resumed ignoring John, but after a moment, he paused and looked up expectantly.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, as if he'd asked John to feed him and now his servant was falling down on the job.

John gestured towards the sofa. "Would you like to join me over here?" he asked. Sherlock somehow managed to relocate from his chair to sitting on John's lap on the sofa in a complete childlike clamber of awkward limbs, while maintaining his usual graceful movement.

John watched in wonder as Sherlock let himself be fed another bite of banana, his head resting on John's shoulder. "Is this what you wanted?" John asked.

"I'm not wild about bananas," Sherlock answered. John laughed at the unexpected response.

"Do you want me to take care of you by taking more control over your meals, making sure you eat and choosing your meals more often?" John clarified. "I would like to take a more dominant role, if you're open to it." Sherlock nodded. "Is this why I've had to remind you to eat all week? And why I found that romance novel on my kindle?"

"I like that book," Sherlock answered.

John hummed. "I've read it. I paid particular attention to the highlighted section where they go out for dinner, and Jackson orders dinner for his partner. Including the note that broccoli does not belong in alfredo sauce. I think we need to make a point to talk about these things more often, and next time you think of something you want, just text me, all right? Don't leave cryptic clues."

"They weren't cryptic," Sherlock argued, "you simply didn't observe. Of course I want you to take control over me more regularly." He gasped when John responded by swatting the back of his thigh, then melted even more into John's embrace. "Toast?" the suddenly-less-grumpy man asked.

"Yes, toast," John repeated, holding up a bite of the bread. "And after this, we're going to go lie in bed and read for a little bit. You didn't sleep much last night. It would do you good to have a bit of a rest, if not an actual nap." Sherlock shook his head, then opened his mouth to bite the bread, and yawned unexpectedly before he could eat. He slouched slightly, sulking, but he nodded. "And maybe," John started again, "if you'd like… maybe we could buy you some dishes?"

"Pirate dishes?" Sherlock asked. "With the little fork and spoon, as well?"

John smiled at his partner's positive response. "If I can find some, yes." He was not particularly surprised when Sherlock fished in John's pocket for his phone, and tapped a bookmarked page. Of course he'd already shopped and found just such a thing. On John's shopping account. On John's phone. John took a closer look at the plastic place setting. It cost a bit more than he thought it should, but the pirate ship design was a good match… with a devious grin, John tapped the purchase button. Sherlock gasped in surprise. "It'll be here Tuesday," John said. "Now, in the meantime, can you finish this for me?"

Sherlock nodded. Somehow he seemed to have melted, like softened butter, oozing against John. "Thank you, Daddy," he said softly after taking another bite of toast. John could hear his stomach rumbling a bit as it adjusted to this new reality that included actual food. "Sort of hurts," Sherlock complained, rubbing near where the noise seemed to have come from.

John nodded. "You haven't eaten in a while. Little tummies aren't meant to work like that. You need to eat more often."

To his increasingly diminishing surprise, Sherlock nodded in agreement. "You're the daddy, that's your job," he answered snarkily. John snickered.

"Right, I am," John announced, "So after your tummy has time to adjust, and we've finished reading in bed, you're going to eat a bit more." Sherlock grumbled his disapproval, but John put a stop to it with a gentle pat to his bum. "You can survive a healthy diet, love, I promise."

"Boring," Sherlock groused.

"You can turn it into an experiment if you like," John suggested. "Evaluate your energy levels over time, and see what you learn from the experience."

"I suppose I deserve this," Sherlock said, his tone overflowing with resignation.

"Yes, you do," John acknowledged. "I love you too much not to look after you, especially if that's what you've been wanting."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the mushiness, then nodded. "Just reading in bed," he asked, "or can I have a nappy as well?"

John pretended to mull it over, with a grin. "I think we can do that." Sherlock gave a small sigh of relief at the thought, smiling as he grabbed John's hand to guide him to stab the last bite of banana.


	18. note from author

My lovely readers, my grandpa died very unexpectedly, this morning. It's going to be even longer for the next chapter, because I've got to help grandma with basically everything in the world, and keep up in school. I just wanted to let you know, this is not an abandoned work, even if it takes a while for me to get back to it.

I thank you for your readership, your patience, and if you feel so inclined, your thoughts and/or prayers.


	19. Because You're in a Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general for non-sexual age play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you all for your thoughts, prayers, and kind notes. I haven't thanked you individually because it's just… I don't know, emotions are screwy, irrational things. Each of your messages, thoughts, and prayers matters, though. Second, I had planned to delete my note, and post the real chapter 18 in its place. However, emotions, irrational… I can't do it. So we'll just carry on and go to 51 chapters, and I'll probably confuse the crap out of myself since I'm not renumbering my files to match!
> 
> Special thanks to pluperfectsunrise for the beta work. Again, this wasn't re-beta'd once I edited, so any continued suckage is all me.

John sighed as he looked around the hotel room. He knew Sherlock needed to… he wasn't sure, really. They'd been together romantically for a while, but this age… stuff… was still a bit new to John. With the latest case having been completed, he was confident Sherlock needed him to take control again. They’d figured out that the acid attacks were not random but the work of a robber who thought he was about to be identified by the witnesses, and caught up to the idiot who’d managed to climb twelve or thirteen metres up a tree before remembering he was afraid of heights. But three days of subsisting on caffeine and a haughty air of authority as they pursued the case from Ilford to Cambridge and then all the way out nearly to Norwich had just about exhausted the consulting detective’s reserves.

John hadn’t thought to pack for this, though. When Sherlock had announced that they needed to go to a new, possibly related crime scene in Cambridge, he’d barely thought to pack at all, only taking time to dump the contents of a clean basket of laundry into a duffel bag as he ran for the cab that, John knew from experience, would pull away if Sherlock had to wait more than five seconds. Which is how they came to be in a hotel room in Norwich, with a baby shirt from the laundry and a soother that John had found in his jacket pocket. And three dishcloths and one of Mrs Hudson’s aprons, for some reason, but that wasn't particularly useful at the moment. John imagined himself beating his head against the wall in frustration. Never again. In the future, he’d keep a nappy, shirt, and at least a soother in this bag, just in case.

Still, Sherlock needed John to make a safe place, so that he could let go of his death grip on control and get a bit of rest before their trek home tomorrow. John took out the shirt and soother, then glanced around the room in search of… he wasn’t sure. A spare idea laying on the desk? As he turned around, he caught sight of the bathtub, with a tiny bottle of body wash sitting on the ledge. Hey look, a spare idea sitting on the ledge… all right, he could work with this. John strode into the bathroom, where he quickly plugged the tub, started it filling, and dumped the entire bottle of body wash in to make bubbles.

"Come in here," John instructed Sherlock who gave him a quizzical look from his place sprawled on the bed. "Now, please." Sherlock stared for a couple seconds, then got up and came into the bathroom.

"What are you--" he started as John unbuttoned his shirt for him. "A bath? John, I--"

"Take your shoes off for Daddy," John instructed, provoking a soft gasp from his partner. Sherlock fell still for a moment, considering the invitation John had just presented him with, before he kicked his shoes off without untying them, and almost frantically started pulling at his clothes, helping John undress him. He could have held it together until they got home, but this was so, so much better.

"In you go," John said, pointing at the half-full tub. The bubbles weren't spectacular, but it would work, and John made a mental note to take the bottle and refill it with real bubble solution for future trips. He took off his own long-sleeved shirt and sat on the floor in his undershirt, arms in the water to his elbows as he alternated between swishing the warm water around and massaging Sherlock's weary muscles. He half wished for at least a toy boat, but Sherlock seemed too tired for that, anyway. After a few minutes, John used the flannel to wash his partner, smiling when Sherlock shivered at the sensation of the warm water and soft cloth on the back of his neck, before he helped the younger man up and out of the tub.

Sherlock tried to dry off, but John shook his head and wrapped him in the big, fluffy towel. "Bedroom, over by the radiator," he instructed. Sherlock obediently migrated (another clue that he was too tired to really engage in a more in-depth ageplay scene) and John set to drying him off as he stood in the warmest spot in the room. Once that job was done, John grabbed the shirt and soother he'd found in his bag. It wasn't what he'd choose if he'd packed specifically for this, but he could make it work.

"Can I get you dressed for bed?" John asked, knowing full well that the uncertainty was plain on his face. He still wasn’t used to this making-decisions-for-Sherlock thing, and though he enjoyed it, he knew he wasn't brilliant at it just yet. Sherlock smiled, nodded -- and then disappeared back into the bathroom. "Err… what just happened?" John asked no one in particular. Sherlock emerged with two spare towels. "What are you planning to do with those?" John asked.

"Can you get those large safety pins from your first aid kit?" Sherlock asked in reply, already focused on the task at hand. John watched in curiosity as Sherlock expertly folded the towel into something that even John could recognise as a cloth nappy.

"Where did you learn this?" he asked.

"I experimented," Sherlock answered, a pleased grin coming over his face at John's strangled sound of intrigue at that information.

"Experimented? When? Why?” John's confusion was plain.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a patently Sherlockian sigh at John’s lack of instant understanding. “When I took that case that my brother gave me just to torment me, because of the adult baby involved.” John frowned slightly at that response. “What better way to gain new insight into something I didn’t understand, but by trying it myself, as an experiment?” Sherlock explained further. John could hear the “do keep up” in his tone, even though he didn’t say it.

"You weren't interested in this before that case," John surmised. Sherlock said nothing, clinging to his last shred of patience as John assembled the pieces. "Wait…this is how you learned you're interested in this?"

“How did you imagine that I figured it out?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “I sort of always knew I liked dominance,” he mused as he rummaged for the requested pins. “I never gave it any thought, I suppose. All right, lay down for me, love.”

“You always knew?” Sherlock asked. John hummed in the affirmative, causing his partner to frown thoughtfully. “Really, always?”

“I didn’t always understand it as a sexual interest,” John pointed out, starting to feel just a touch awkward. “That part, I didn’t work out until later on.” Sherlock gave him a careful look, then shrugged with a nod. John gestured at the makeshift nappy again, then rolled his eyes at the exuberance with which Sherlock threw himself into the proper position.

But he couldn’t quite hide his smile, at both Sherlock’s resourcefulness and at his eagerness to let John meet his needs. He pinned Sherlock in, then followed up with the shirt and soother, still regretting that he wasn't better prepared. Sherlock, however, seemed happy to cuddle under the covers in the dark, while John told a bedtime story that he was fairly sure he'd plagiarised from a story he read as a schoolboy. John frowned with momentary dismay when he heard a light snore before he'd gotten to the end of his story. But he sighed with relief when it occurred to him that with the case closed and his detective tucked into bed, he could finally get some rest as well. John pulled the blankets around them a bit more snugly to ward off the evening chill and let his eyes drift closed.


	20. It's Halftime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated MATURE for trigger warning explained in the note. Contains non-sexual ageplay which would otherwise be rated teen or so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: In this chapter, I hint at a case involving child abuse. It's not either of the main characters, and this warning is more detailed than the reference is in the chapter. If you have any concerns about reading it, you can avoid it by skipping the second paragraph; I've even put a note at the top so you won't miss it. If you feel the need to skip the whole chapter, though, go for it. Also, I'm still losing a lot of free time to helping my grandma figure out life without grandpa, but I'm working on rearranging chapters so I can do a section I've got that's pre-written.. Hopefully we can get back to something resembling a posting routine soon, but thank you all for understanding.
> 
> This chapter has no beta at all, because the writing of it was more personal and I just didn't want to.
> 
> With thanks to the person whose actions inspired Sherlock's in paragraph 2.

Usually John wasn't the sort to make a big deal of watching football games. Being a doctor, being in the army, and certainly living with Sherlock all required a degree of flexibility that meant he couldn't put much energy into caring whether or not he caught his team's games. But this year, he'd gotten lucky several times over, with cases ending just as the game was coming on. And this year, Leicester City was doing unusually well. And this game had, once again, come when he had some time off work.

**(THIS IS THE PARAGRAPH THAT CAUSED THE TRIGGER WARNING)**  
They'd wrapped up a case the night before, and he had today off work. The only negative was that the case hadn't gone as well as they would have liked. While the child had survived, John knew it would be a lifelong struggle to overcome what she'd endured before Sherlock had found her. John would probably never forget seeing the detective come out of the shed at a dead run with the girl in his arms, her little… princess fairy… whatever… dress flapping in the breeze along with Sherlock's coat. He'd blown right past John, straight to the lone female police officer in attendance, and passed the girl off to her, then doubled back and grabbed John in an uncharacteristic public hug. John didn't ask what that was about… he was pretty sure he could guess.

After the case, John wasn't surprised that Sherlock melted down a bit when they got home. Cases involving children often left him a bit of a wreck. They'd spent a restless night sleeping tangled together. Sometime in the night, Sherlock had woken him and requested a bottle of tea, then requested another when John tried to give him decaf instead of the real thing. Because of course he could tell the difference, even with all the milk and sugar. Later, after waking John with an elbow to the ribs as he made a frantic caffeine-driven dash to the loo, he'd requested a nappy. The morning had gone similarly, with Sherlock needing a lot of looking after. He resisted anything that wasn't curling up in John's arms and being held like an overgrown toddler. John had managed to get him to eat an apple by dicing it up and feeding it to him as they sat together in bed. They'd had a bath together, and while John didn't personally prefer bubble baths, or sharing his tub with Action Man, it was a pleasant shared experience.

And, the nice thing about Sherlock feeling unusually little was that it meant John could watch the game when it came on, as long as he kept an arm around Sherlock, didn't cheer too loudly at the goals, and paid attention to the seemingly endless need for tea and a fresh nappy. Which meant he'd missed the action a couple times while taking care of Sherlock, but he couldn't complain, really, not when they'd had a much-needed quiet day together. As the end of the first half came up, John lazily reached over and prodded at Sherlock, making sure he was still dry, then leaned over to pick up the plush rabbit he'd knocked off onto the floor in the process.

"Bottle?" John asked. Sherlock made a displeased noise. "Soother?" Another sound that definitely meant no. John frowned. Sherlock had gotten a bit restless and it was obvious that he needed something. "What do you want, love?" John asked, tempering his frustration by reminding himself that his partner likely didn't know what he needed, either. In reply, Sherlock made like he was trying to lay on John's lap. "Kangaroo time..?" John suggested. He watched Sherlock's round turquoise eyes go soft and relaxed and he nodded. John sighed in relief as Sherlock quickly peeled his own shirt off and then started tugging at John's clothes as well.

At the end of halftime, John was still laying shirtless on the sofa, Sherlock draped over him, the sensation of John stroking his back making him shiver lightly, now and then. John hadn't planned to stay like this for long, but he was able to maintain a clear line of sight to the television, so he supposed it worked. Anyway, he could think of worse ways to spend the afternoon than watching the game with his needy little detective.


	21. New Lingerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated SEMI-MATURE for sexually suggestive content at the end, but nothing overtly sexual happens on-screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing that prompted me to blow everything off and revise/post this today was when I said to a friend, "I will survive this semester if it kills me," and she actually had to explain to me what was so funny about that statement.

John smiled wearily as he stepped into the flat. Finally, the week from hell was over. An outbreak of chickenpox had kept them hopping at the clinic, and he'd been needed for nearly twice as many shifts as usual, just to tell parents what doctors had been telling parents for generations, colloidal oatmeal baths and no scratching. Decent pay, granted, but he'd been away from home for what felt like ages. He even missed a case, and although Sherlock assured him that it was of little importance, he felt a bit guilty for not being there. Guilty enough that he'd ordered Sherlock a present on the internet one night early in the week, when it had become obvious that he was going to be picking up a lot of shifts.

So when he saw a large, overstuffed padded envelope sitting on his chair, he beamed. "It must have taken a lot of restraint not to open this for me," he commented to Sherlock, who was sitting in his own chair, practically meditating on the package.

"It's a present for me because you feel guilty for working so many hours at the clinic," Sherlock said.

"And you know this how?" John asked. He could guess already, but Sherlock liked to explain things and well, John wanted to indulge him.

"Obviously a textile product of some type," Sherlock began. "Not likely a clothing item for you; you prefer to try things on in person, and anyhow, you favour a sparse closet and nothing you own currently requires replacement. No business name on the label, but a simple Google search reveals the address belongs to an ABDL manufacturer. You considered calling out sick when Lestrade asked me to consult on that counterfeiting case for his friend, and only reluctantly allowed me to talk you out of it. Thus, a present to soothe your guilt, what is it?"

John smiled. "That was a fairly simple one, wasn't it? All right, go ahead, you can open it now."

With a patently teenage look of both disdain and eagerness, Sherlock snatched the package from John's chair and ripped into it as John watched. He grabbed the fabric and shook it out. "… pyjamas?"

"Pirate pyjamas, with feet to help keep you warm, since Mrs Hudson's asked us not to run the heating so high this season," John clarified. "You don't have to wear them if you're not in the mood, of course."

"Treasure map pyjamas," Sherlock corrected. "The sentimental association is obvious." A small smile broke through his façade. John could see him starting to ease into the idea of maybe engaging in a little ageplay.

Perhaps.

Sherlock jumped up from his seat and stripped down to his pants before stepping into the new pyjamas, zipping them up and then spinning around so John could get the full effect. As soon as John saw it, he burst into laughter. Hysterical laughter that, if he weren't careful, would leave his ribs aching the next day. Sherlock shot him a disapproving look. "What?" he asked. John covered his mouth, forced himself to stop so he could answer -- and burst into gales of laughter. After a second such try, and some annoyed huffing from his partner, John merely poked at Sherlock's bum. The younger man grabbed John's phone, using it to take a picture so he could see what was so funny.

When he saw it, Sherlock was at first annoyed, but after a moment, the giggles started. The pyjamas were cartoon pirates in little ships, following dotted lines all over a field of light blue fabric. And there, as if strategically placed on his arse, was where one of those dotted lines culminated in an x. Which, as everyone knows, marks the spot.

Still giggling, Sherlock climbed onto John's lap, straddling him with a smile that, John realised, was more seductive than childish. Oh, so it was going to be THAT sort of ageplay tonight.

"Well?" Sherlock said expectantly. "I do believe the map shows you where to find the treasure." John's hands immediately went for his arse, cupping and gently squeezing as Sherlock moaned. John loved the way Sherlock had become more vocal in recent weeks, more willing to express himself in many ways. Even if his idea of dirty talk was a bit… Sherlock-y.

"That's what you want?" John asked. Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around John, squirming just so. John gave a whimpering sigh. "All right, all right, but I get to choose dinner before we go for round two." 

"How do you know there's going to be --"

"Because you always want a second go before bed, when we start this early, love," John answered. "And it's hard work seeing to you, so I need dinner and a bit of a rest in between."

Sherlock rocked against him again. "Can we go to bed now? Please?"

John smiled again. If this was what happened when he bought Sherlock a present, he might have to think about doing this more often.


	22. Stress relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: General for non-sexual ageplay, which is used more in the style of a coping strategy (as strongly suggested by the title of "stress relief", of course).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we begin a seven-chapter story arc which I've been both incredibly eager and incredibly nervous about getting to. Yay, and stuff. I'm posting from a mobile device so if the formatting is awful, give me about 2-3 hours to get home and notice/fix it.
> 
> This chapter relies on two assumptions: John picked up a lot of skills outside his specific field of expertise, in the army. And Mycroft has arranged for John to get away with some things that other doctors in his position would not, such as after-hours access to the clinic, and the option to treat friends/family without some shadowy ethics committee descending upon him.

"Over here!" Lestrade yelled. John, who'd already started down the alley in the opposite direction, skidded to a halt and spun around. "Idiot caught up to him, at least," he groused, pointing at the suspect who lay cuffed on the ground.

"He sat on me!" the suspect shouted. "Police brutality! I'll sue!"

"Yeah, good luck with that, mate," Lestrade answered. "You got caught by an upstanding citizen, who did no lasting harm other than to your ego." John tried not to snigger too loudly at the thought of Sherlock being an upstanding citizen. He glanced at Sherlock, then turned to ask Greg a question before whipping back around to his partner. His expression was… tense, stressed, and he was breathing heavily.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, patting his chest. "He's slightly fitter than I am," he answered. "Gave me a workout. Let's go home."

"Paperwork!" Lestrade shouted. "It's only four in the afternoon!" he added, heading off Sherlock's usual excuse of exhaustion.

"You were only on the case for six hours," John pointed out. "Come on, we'll get a curry on the way to the Yard."

\---

It was dark when they left the police station, not that that was saying much given how early night fell in winter. Sherlock had irritated the hell out of Lestrade by being short-tempered, and insisting on signing forms left-handed due to some experiment he was conducting. John rolled his eyes as the detective strode confidently to the curb and nearly used his right hand to summon a taxi before remembering his experiment and using his left hand instead. "Hungry?" John asked when they got home. Sherlock wordlessly shook his head and made his way upstairs and straight into the bedroom. "You didn't eat much of your curry, either," John commented, but he didn't push the issue. He'd try again later. In the meantime, he really needed to spend some time on blog management. It was about ten when he decided to head to bed, bringing a packet of hobnobs with him to make one more attempt at getting Sherlock to eat.

When he entered the room, Sherlock jumped with a startled shriek, and there was a flurry of motion as he pulled the blanket over himself. "Oh for… I've seen you naked, you know," John groused. "I brought something to eat, if you -- " the words died on his lips as he pulled the blanket back to see his lover, and came face to face instead with a shockingly dark bruise on his right forearm. It definitely hadn't been there during their morning shower.

"Writing experiment, my arse," John said tersely, thinking back to his sudden insistence on left-handedness. "What happened?" It was then that he noticed Sherlock's red eyes and the damp spots on his pillow. He'd been crying. Something was wrong. "You need to tell me what's happened, love," he said, his voice much gentler and quieter this time.

"Hurts," Sherlock whispered shakily.

"Why didn't you tell me before now?" John asked, mindful to keep his tone soft and calm.

"Don't want to get spanked," he answered.

"Did it happen because you were breaking a rule?" John asked. His few rules centred around requiring Sherlock to be more careful on a case, which was… a bit of a work in progress. Sherlock made a quiet but very obviously distressed sound at John's question. "All right, well, now that I know, you might as well tell me how it happened while I look at it." He sat down on the bed next to Sherlock and began carefully touching the bruised and swollen arm, watching for reactions as he worked.

"Was following the bloke, and he noticed and started running, so I chased, and he stumbled, so I jumped on him and he threw me off and I fell on… something. And he kicked, hard. Then he got up and nearly stepped on me when I was trying to grab his ankle. Then I -- ow, don't bend it like that -- knocked him down and sat on him and called Lestrade."

John sighed deeply. Sherlock's pain responses seemed to centre on one area, sort of between his wrist and his arm. It could be a sort of sprain, but John didn't feel comfortable making that assumption, not considering Sherlock's explanation for how it happened, and certainly not in light of the fact that it had made John's stoic partner cry. This injury needed an x-ray. He drew his phone from his pocket, touched his way through the menu, and held it to his ear. "Greg, can you meet me at the clinic?" he asked. "And I'm sorry, but you're going to need to bring the packet of forms for witness injury." Sherlock moaned unhappily. "We're just leaving the flat now. I'm sorry, I'll… owe you a new steak, all right? Yes, and a pint. Thank you."

\---

Greg prepared a new copy of the paperwork with Sherlock's, er, updated information while John booted up the computer-controlled x-ray machine at the clinic. His partner looked uncharacteristically small, curled up in the cushy leather office chair they'd borrowed from a doctor's desk, wearing only pyjamas and slippers, his plush dragon tucked under his elbow. His coat lay on a nearby plastic chair. As soon as John had said the word, clinic, Sherlock's younger side had begun creeping out. He'd allowed John to escort him to his place of business, but lurched to a stop outside the door and refused to enter until Greg had arrived, and promised to search the premises for any scary doctors. He wouldn't sit on the table, or even the plastic patient chairs, so they'd pulled in an overly cushy executive office chair instead. John glanced at the rolling stool upon which he usually seated patients for arm x-rays. It was easier for his patients, but having Sherlock touch the x-ray film might be a challenge, as it was. Getting him to sit on hospital equipment? John shook his head and made a mental note to ask Mycroft about his partner's phobia-like aversion to medical settings.

John gently rolled Sherlock, desk chair and all, over to the table, provoking a concerned noise from his partner that Greg eased by setting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "Just taking pictures of your bones," Greg said in the tone he usually reserved for interviewing children, while John positioned his hand on the film, with quite a bit of whinging from their patient.

"Could you step out, please, Greg?" he asked when he'd gotten the arm the way he wanted it.

Sherlock whimpered again, this time a sound of fear rather than pain. The men glanced at one another over his head, wordlessly agreeing with each other that, yes, he might be just a touch needy right now. "The risk involved is minimal," Lestrade answered. "I'm all right with it. I'll stay with him." John frowned at that, irritated that Greg had undermined his insistence on best practices, and even more irritated that Sherlock looked so much more relaxed just at the thought that he wouldn't be alone for five seconds. How young WAS he tonight? And how had John not noticed him getting to this point?!

"It's all right, John," Greg reiterated. "He's dealing with more stress than he can handle on his own, and you can't be Doctor John and Daddy John at the same time. Let me help you."

John still wasn't thrilled, but Sherlock did look comfortable with Greg's arms wrapped loosely around him… more comfortable than he'd looked since the injury occurred, really. "Just… keep as much of your body shielded as you can," John said, even though he had no idea what he expected Greg to do in response to that instruction. He stepped behind the shielded wall and operated the machine, working as quickly as possible to get all the necessary pictures so Sherlock could relax and Greg could finish his paperwork and go back home. It didn't take long to study the images on the new digital machine they'd gotten after a recent hack of the NHS system had damaged their old one beyond reasonable repair. He printed the clearest image for Greg to attach to the official report, then stepped into the next room to grab the printout and gather a few packets of supplies into an organising tray.

"Oh, Sherlock," Greg said softly when he saw the contents of the tray.

John nodded at his friend. "Broken," he announced, although he was sure that if Greg could deduce the diagnosis, Sherlock had done so long before. "Dark blue cast?" he offered to his sulking partner, holding out the colour-coded pouches. "Red? Black? I can bring all the colours if you like, but I thought you might like one of these best."

"Daddy…" Sherlock whined, shooting John a distraught look as if it had been John's examination, not the fight with the suspect, that had injured him. John perched on the x-ray table and looked down at his little boy, scrunched up in the chair with Greg leaning over it to hold him comfortingly. Greg was right. He couldn't be the big bad doctor and Sherlock's comfort and safety, both at the same time. And Greg couldn't do the doctoring job at all, so John quite simply had to temporarily hand over the parenting job. Thank goodness the man had developed such an unbelievable soft spot for the world's most irritating consulting detective.

"I know, love," John answered. "I'm sorry, but I need to take care of you, by protecting your arm so it can heal. Look, this is that waterproof stuff, so you can still have baths and play in the rain. And the break isn't too big. We'll feed you lots of healthy foods, and you'll get lots of sleep so your osteoblasts can have time to mend it, and I'll take it off as soon as it's healed enough. I'll even do another x-ray in two weeks, to see if it's ready for a removeable splint yet." Typically, John preferred that from the start for adults, especially for an incomplete fracture like this, but he knew better than to trust Sherlock with something he could take off by himself. Hell, he wasn't sure he could trust Sherlock with a cast, even one that was fully submersible, but he didn't have much choice.

"Blue," their patient said after a quiet moment. John hummed in agreement, and started opening packets of waterproof lining material.

"Doesn't this involve water?" Greg asked, turning over the still-sealed packet of cast material as if to read the instructions. John nodded in reply. "Should we be doing this in here?" he asked, glancing meaningfully towards the very expensive, very not-water-friendly equipment.

John paused. "Sherlock gets jumpy enough at the sight of a patient room when he's feeling grown-up and in control," he answered.

Greg frowned at the memory of the last time he'd tried to drag Sherlock to John's clinic, for an ear infection that he'd steadfastly ignored until his eardrum had ruptured. Getting even a non-regressed Sherlock to sit in John's exam room was a challenge. There must have been some really bad memories or associations rattling around in that mind palace of his, Greg knew, and the thought of having to handle them with a young, unusually vulnerable Sherlock, whose traumas were clearly much closer to the surface… no. Just no. "Do you have a lunchroom, with a sink?" he asked. At that, John smiled brightly.

"We do," he answered. "Can't believe I didn't think of that. Sherlock, love, can we move to the breakroom? You can see where I go when I call you on my lunch breaks. We've got crisps in there, if you want a packet." Sherlock considered this for a moment, then nodded, and John smiled, already leading the way to the closed door at the end of the hall.

It was only a few moments later that they had Sherlock sat in a chair at the lunch table, injured arm propped just so. Greg perched on a stool behind him, gently holding his hand to keep it in position while John worked. While they waited out the short time it took John to do the job, and then the fifteen or so minutes for it to dry, Greg told Sherlock stories from some of his old cases. He told about a thief who got caught because he signed his own name to the stolen cheque he was trying to use, and one who tried to steal a ferret by shoving it down his trousers, only to be bitten very soundly on the, er, bits, by the irritated animal, with Sherlock giggling and adding commentary of his own to the stories. Before they knew it, the wait was over.

"One more thing," John said when Sherlock tried to jump up from his seat. The detective gave a confused look, then a dark one when he saw the last packet John had in the tray.

"Noooo…" he whined, pulling his arm to his belly and covering it protectively with the other one.

Greg turned to look, expecting John to be wielding a needle, only to see him unfolding a simple sling. "Sherlock, your arm needs to rest, and this will give you a nice, safe place to rest it, even when you're running around and doing experiments," Greg helpfully pointed out. "And look, it's really just a pocket, so you can use it to carry things that can't fit in your hand right now." Even with the encouragement, Sherlock drew away from John as he stepped forward.

"No, Daddy," he whimpered. John looked up at Greg, mirroring his look of confusion.

John turned the sling inside-out. "See, just fabric, nothing scary, love," he tried, but Sherlock still shook his head. "It's just for when you're busy doing things," he said. Kids sometimes worried about having to wear it day and night; maybe Sherlock was, also. "If you're sleeping, you don't need it."

"Promise?" Sherlock asked. John breathed a sigh of relief at having stumbled upon the boy's point of concern. The poor dear was probably afraid of being strangled by the sling, a fear that was perhaps warranted, given how active Sherlock was in his sleep.

"I promise, love," John answered. "If you're sleeping, or sitting quietly, you can take it off."

"And if you want to come around tomorrow," Greg added encouragingly, "our housekeeper has fabric paint, to do drawings on her daughter's shirts when she's not too busy. I bet she'd share if we ask nicely. We could draw all kinds of things on there, you and I." John raised an eyebrow at Greg's characterisation of Mycroft's house and household staff as "ours", but he left the matter alone. That was a question better asked over beers, than over the head of Mycroft's littler-than-usual brother.

"We can do that tomorrow," John agreed, "but only if we take the sling and wear it, so we'll have it with us to draw on it." Sherlock nodded and held still while John put it on him and carefully nestled his arm in the pocket. Greg stepped in next, helping him get his left arm into his coat and draping the right shoulder over him, then doing the top button so it wouldn't fall off on the trip home.

Before they quite knew what was happening, Sherlock had wrapped his left arm around the detective inspector. "Thank you, Uncle Greg," he said softly. John blinked in surprise. Apparently, Greg had been assigned a role in Little Sherlock's world. Greg chuckled uncertainly for just a moment before adjusting to this new version of reality.

"You're very welcome, Sherlock," he answered, pressing his lips to the detective's hair in a gentle kiss. "Mycroft and I will see you tomorrow. Now let Daddy take you home and put you right to bed, all right?" Sherlock nodded solemnly and allowed himself to be shuffled out of the clinic. When they got home, as soon as he'd shrugged out of his coat, John's hand landed on his bum, twice, firmly but not hard enough to hurt. Sherlock squawked in surprise and whirled around to look at John, his good hand reaching back to protect himself.

"That's all," John quickly assured him. "One for breaking a rule when you went after the suspect alone, and one for not telling me you needed my help."

"That's all?" Sherlock asked, bewildered. Even in his young state, he knew he'd done something bad enough to deserve quite a bit more.

John nodded. "That's all from me, anyway. Your arm is punishing you quite thoroughly, I think, for both of those things." Reminded of the pain, Sherlock suddenly cradled his sling-covered arm with his good hand, lower lip protruding in a look of self-pity. "Yeah, see? Daddy's spankings are nothing compared to the consequences real life gives you. That's why I do it. I'd rather you learn your lesson with the smallest hurt possible, instead of something like this." Sherlock nodded, then threw a longing look towards their bedroom. John smiled at the wordless request. "It's bedtime. Go clean your teeth, and I'll get you some paracetamol and water."

A short while later, John was in bed with an overgrown little boy curled up against his side, and a heavy, cast-covered arm resting on his sternum. Sherlock wasn't quite asleep, but John could tell by his breathing that he was just about there, and finally, finally, he could allow himself to relax as well.


	23. You Just Shaved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen with a slight lean towards mature, for age play that includes the concept of spanking as a recreational activity, and also for Sherlock-antics that may come off as suggestive even though I was going for more of "things 12-year-old boys would find funny".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is still in short supply for me, but I was able to use my mid-term break to get caught up on a lot of things, so I'm hopeful. Looking ahead, I notice that more of my upcoming chapters have adult content than the early ones did. Please remember to check summaries and notes to ensure that you only encounter content you wanted to read.

The sound of water running downstairs woke John on a pleasantly quiet day. He yawned, debating whether he wanted to be awake yet. After giving momentary consideration to his very blank agenda for the day, he decided to try for a bit more sleep, and rolled over in search of his personal furnace to help soothe himself back to sleep.

John snuggled himself against Sherlock, frowning at the fact that he was pricklier than usual. "You need a shave," John grumbled.

"And how would you suggest I do that?" came the sleepy reply as something heavy rested on his hand.

John grunted in sudden understanding of the problem. While there were many things Sherlock could do left-handed while waiting for his fractured arm to mend, shaving was probably not one of them. "All right, I need to shave you, then," he decided. Sherlock merely hummed in reply, drifting back to sleep himself. John yawned. Yeah… shaving, definitely, but later.

\---

The next time John woke, he felt pleasantly groggy, and the sun's angle told him it was very nearly noon. The only thing spoiling his lovely awakening was his arm being yanked on. He opened one eye. "Yes?" he asked Sherlock.

"You said you'd shave me!" Sherlock answered. John's first thought was that Sherlock had gotten into that extra-caffeinated tea Molly had given him for a joke. Sherlock bounced up and down, then tugged again. No, John realised. Young Sherlock had evidently arrived.

"Can it wait until both of my eyes are open?" John asked.

Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh. "Your eyes ARE open, Daddy," he answered. Ah. So, more the intentionally bratty, playful role-play than full-on Little Sherlock. He needed extra attention but wasn't feeling catastrophically starved for nurturing, today. There were, of course, good and bad things about this. Odds were pretty good that sex was on the cards at some point, as long as John took care not to let himself become genuinely frustrated with Sherlock's tendency to push buttons as part of his ageplay game.

"Go start the tea," he answered, giving in a bit. "And make toast, if you can. I need that first." Really, he just needed a few minutes of quiet. But the appropriately British method of stalling was to have tea, and maybe a bit of toast or a biscuit. Sherlock sighed at John again, but he stalked off to the kitchen, so John counted that a win.

Fifteen too-short minutes later, John found himself standing over Sherlock, who was seated in a chair by the kitchen sink while John wielded not the straight blade Sherlock preferred but the old-fashioned safety razor that John had come to prefer after being shot. Sherlock complained bitterly about the inferior razor for about four seconds before John swatted him, provoking the younger man to bite back a moan, then blush with a devious smile.

"Behave, and you can have more of that," John said. He'd long ago learned that, while Sherlock liked to earn a trip across his lap by the usual method of getting into mischief, spankings could also be used as a reward. John smiled as he worked Sherlock's shaving soap into a lather. No point to the carrot with that one; just the stick was all he needed to keep his boy on the right path. He worked carefully at the shaving task, carefully but confidently dragging the razor across his partner's skin while Sherlock hummed his appreciation of the attention.

"Anything else that needs shaving, while I have it out?" John asked as soon as he was done. He grinned as Sherlock's good hand immediately covered his bits, a look of horror on his face. The poor thing had, once upon a time, had the idea to shave some rather delicate areas, and given he had no clue what he was doing, he was wholly unprepared for the itching that followed. As Mycroft had told the story, the result had been memorable, and Sherlock would likely never repeat the experiment again, no matter how many assurances John gave that he knew how to prevent the same result. "All right, all right," John said between chuckles. "Go play while I clean up here."

When John had washed up in the kitchen, he was surprised to find Sherlock sitting on the floor by the sofa, sulking. "I can't do anything and it's all your fault," Sherlock groused. John was confused for a second until he realised Sherlock was glaring at his cast. He wasn't surprised; it had only been a couple days, and Sherlock wasn't one to tolerate limitations with any amount of grace. But really, he couldn't do anything? John glanced at the shelves, considering each toy. Meccano, no. Lego, he could probably assemble but not disassemble. Crayons, no… maybe if they had finger paints, but they didn't. John mentally added that to the shopping list. Plasticine… well, maybe.

"What about this?" John asked, taking the box out.

"I can barely move my fingers," Sherlock argued.

"I'll be right here to help," John countered as he unpacked the clay onto the coffee table. "Come on, I'm going to make a fruit bowl," he said, choosing something with shapes that Sherlock could make independently. With that, John set about mashing lumps of plasticine into fruit shapes, first an apple, then a strawberry. Sherlock, thankfully, joined in, plucking out a bit and rolling grapes for the fruit bowl.

"We don't have peach colour," Sherlock observed after fifteen, maybe twenty quiet minutes of making random things.

"Our fruit bowl could do with a peach, couldn't it?" John agreed. "You can mix some with the orange and white. Just work it with your left hand." Sherlock glared as if he'd expected John to do it for him, but he did it for himself, so John returned to making a squiggly trim to decorate the bowl. It was starting to look like a mix between some sort of prehistoric pottery and a child's attempt at making clay dinosaurs, but they were having fun. Sherlock smiled up at him as he put the newly formed peach into the bowl, right next to the grapes, which were very nearly the same size. John smiled, making a mental note to use plasticine for physiotherapy once the cast came off, and he returned to his own part of the project.

Which was probably why he didn't notice what else Sherlock was making until he deposited it into the bowl.

"Er," John said as he stared at the rudimentary but very obvious miniature sculpture of a penis. "And what sort of fruit is that, exactly?"

"Banana," Sherlock answered. "I lack the dexterity to make a hammock for it, however." John blinked -- then tipped nearly all the way over onto his back as he dissolved into laughter. Sherlock had been trying to keep a straight face, but John's laughter was contagious, and he ended up following his partner down to the floor, laughing together. "I behaved for the shaving," Sherlock pointed out. "And I even didn't bother you while you were cleaning, when I couldn't find anything to do. Can I have my reward now?"

"All right," John answered, as if he wasn't convinced Sherlock had earned it, but was giving in anyhow. "Go to the bedroom, and I'll get the spanking spoon." He rolled his eyes with a grin as he watched Sherlock gleefully scramble to obey. Maybe the next two weeks wouldn't be as difficult as he'd thought.


	24. You're Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen/general for nonsexual ageplay and contrived mushiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through the School Term From Hell! Let's celebrate with a chapter that I haven't proofread in a while.

Greg Lestrade gave a quiet sigh as he looked down from the window at Baker Street. He glanced over at Mycroft, who he knew was worn-out from dinner and game night with John and Sherlock. Mycroft wasn't really the sort for card games, but Greg and John were, and Greg always found ways to make it worth Mycroft's while to endure their monthly "torture the Holmes boys by making them interact politely" activity nights. Greg felt that it was a better way for Mycroft to show love to his brother than his traditional nosiness, and while Mycroft had his doubts, he had to admit that Sherlock's compulsive need to antagonise him had reduced in recent weeks. But the enforced social activity left both brothers weary, and while Greg wanted to take them home, he didn't want to over-estimate his skill at driving in snow and slush that was probably already refreezing into sheets of ice. Mycroft could call a car to retrieve them, but doing that, for personal use, in this weather… if Greg didn't feel comfortable driving, he didn't really want anyone else to, either. "I don't think we can get home tonight," Greg said, just loud enough for his partner to hear.

"You're right," Mycroft responded quietly. "We'll walk to --" 

"You'll stay upstairs in John's old room," Sherlock announced, before Mycroft could even mention the inn a couple blocks away. After a brief argument conducted for no other reason than because good manners dictated that nobody rush too eagerly into accepting, Greg and Mycroft accepted Sherlock's solution to the icy-street problem. John slipped upstairs to put fresh bedding on the bed, and turn on the heat. Mycroft went out to the car where they had (and John was sure this was Greg's street-cop influence) an emergency overnight bag of spare clothing and toiletries.

"Maybe we should go straight up to bed," Greg said softly near his partner's ear when Mycroft came back from the car. "I think we're making them uncomfortable."

Mycroft glanced over, giving his brother an appraising look. "We aren't making them uncomfortable," he answered.

"How can you..."

"Sherlock asked us to stay. He's uncomfortable because he needs a nappy change, not because of our presence," Mycroft explained, not bothering to keep his voice down.

John shot a surprised look at Sherlock. "You've asked in front of them before… well, Mycroft, anyway. Not like it was ever a secret, with all the cameras he's got around here."

"Those were removed when it came to my attention that you'd become...intimate," Mycroft said, nose wrinkled in an expression of disgust. Truth be told, he'd gotten the idea for his new favourite activity from the few minutes he'd stared at the video feed, frozen in horror. But even if it wasn't overly creepy to monitor the quasi-marital bedroom of his little brother, it bothered him that Sherlock was clearly better at, er, intimacy than Mycroft was. So he'd had the cameras removed at the next opportunity.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said, ignoring Mycroft's uncomfortable expression.

"Not a change," Sherlock argued. "You have to have a thing first, before getting a new one constitutes a change."

Somehow, for reasons that Greg refused to consider because it might mean Mycroft was rubbing off on him, Greg realised that Sherlock was uncomfortable because he worried Greg might look down on him, or see him as immature and unacceptable. He'd seen signs of Sherlock feeling a bit young all evening, and apparently Sherlock had been holding it in until their company departed for the evening. Now that the weather had eliminated that possibility, the youngest of the group didn't seem to know how to handle his needs.

… oh. Greg blinked in surprise as he put the pieces together. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had developed a level of respect and liking for Greg, and he'd begun to care what the older man thought of him. Interesting, and unexpected. "Would be fine if you did need a change," Greg volunteered, "so quit fussing and go get ready for bed." Sherlock looked at Greg for a second, slightly more shocked than aghast, then hurried to the bedroom and let John get him into his nightclothes.

Mycroft passed the time by reading the news and drawing Greg into short conversations about each item, until Greg glanced worriedly towards John and Sherlock's room. Before Greg had the chance to wonder if John and Sherlock were all right, his phone chirped, announcing a text message. He glanced at the screen, seeing that it was from John.

_There's no easy way to say this. I think he wants to cuddle with you before bed._

Greg blinked in surprise, but while this was a new turn of events, it wasn't terribly shocking, not after Sherlock had sought his support when he'd fractured his wrist just a week before. Greg quickly typed a reply. _All right, I'll go change and clean my teeth._

His phone buzzed a moment later. _Thanks. I'll let him know it's okay with you._

Greg frowned at that. Why wouldn't it be okay? He made a mental note to discuss this further with John later, and ensure his care for his partner's baby brother was made clear. In the meantime, he got ready for bed as quickly as possible, returning downstairs just as Sherlock emerged from his room, dressed in gloriously ridiculous pirate map pyjamas that made Greg smile. "Did John buy those for you?" he asked as he took a seat on the sofa, stretching an arm invitingly towards Sherlock.

Sherlock curled up facing backwards on the sofa, moving more gracefully than anyone had any right to as he arranged himself chest to chest with Greg, his legs sticking out to take up the rest of the sofa's seating area while Greg cradled his upper body. Sherlock had shoved his lower arm sort of around Greg a bit, resting the hand on his shoulder, and Greg nestled the upper one between them. Sherlock's cast was digging in just a bit, but overall, the position was far more comfortable than Greg had anticipated when he'd figured out what the younger man had in mind.

"How's your arm feeling?" he asked as he stroked the younger man's fingers gently.

Sherlock shrugged. "Still hurts some," he said softly. "But John makes me take medicine if he hears me say that."

"You don't want that?" Greg asked. Sherlock shook his head with a child-like solemn expression. "Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't like it when he makes me do that. Feels scary." Greg ran his fingers through the younger man's curls, more to soothe himself than anything else. He knew that Sherlock's need for control probably came from some not-good experiences in his past, and right now, those experiences were perhaps a lot closer to the surface than usual. Greg tamped down the desire to demand the name of everyone who'd ever hurt his lover's baby brother, and instead focused on the fact that people who've been through bad experiences sometimes feel out-of-control and frightened by everyday experiences.

"Taking medicine when we need it, like when a doctor gives it to us, is a way that we control our bodies," Greg said, knowing that it was irrational to hope that he could simply reframe the concept and fix everything. But maybe it would make things a little bit easier for Sherlock and John, both. "Medicine lets us choose how we want our bodies to feel and behave, did you know that? That's probably why John makes you take it when your arm hurts, love. He probably feels sad because you're hurting, and he wants to give you the tools to control your body so you feel better." He could tell by the way Sherlock pressed into him that, while this wasn't really new information, it was affecting Sherlock in a new way, perhaps.

"Would you like that, Sherlock?" Greg tried carefully. "Would you like to take charge and make it stop hurting you so much?" Sherlock peered up at the older man, and for a moment, Greg felt like he could see the thoughts floating around in his shockingly clear, bright eyes. After a moment, Sherlock nodded. "Then let's tell John, love. Can you do that?" Sherlock craned his neck far enough to look across the room and catch sight of his partner. John noticed the needy expression and gave Greg a questioning look. Greg beckoned with one finger, and John got up from his chair to kneel next to the sofa.

"What?" he asked Greg, who merely looked at Sherlock.

"Can you tell him?" Greg asked. Sherlock drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, then blew it out with a frustrated frown. "Just try, and if you can't, then I'll do it for you."

"Hurts," Sherlock whispered, after a couple more false starts.

"Your arm hurts?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. John looked up at Greg. "That's the first time he's volunteered that information."

"We talked about how medicine helps us stay in control of our bodies sometimes, like by making pain stop when we don't want to feel it," Greg said helpfully.

"All right… okay, do you want me to bring you a pill?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, then put up two fingers. "Two pills?" he asked, and got another nod in response. "All right, of course you can have two, I'll be right back." Greg nodded, his focus already having returned to the not-so-little one in his arms. He helped Sherlock sit up to take the paracetamol John brought, whispering words of encouragement and helping with the water cup. Once that mini-ordeal was over, he settled Sherlock back into his embrace, leaning down to kiss the boy's temple.

Greg blinked in surprise, staring down at Sherlock who looked equally surprised. "I didn't know that was going to happen," Greg said. He'd done it before, just a week ago at John's clinic after he'd been a good boy and let them take care of his injury, but Greg wasn't sure what to think about it happening again… or in this scenario… or, really, he just wasn't sure what to think at all. He'd expected his life to change in weird ways when he and Mycroft decided to make a go of dating, but expecting it and knowing how to handle it were entirely separate things.

The two stared quietly for a long moment. "I like it," Sherlock said softly, then squirmed in Greg's arms, working his way up a bit to rest his head more on Greg's shoulder, in a very not-subtle attempt at presenting his forehead for further attention.

"I'm glad," Greg muttered softly as he planted a couple more kisses on Sherlock's hairline, then rested his cheek on the younger man's forehead. It was probably bedtime soon, Greg thought, judging by how heavy his own body was starting to feel. But he could make time for just a few more minutes of this, first.


	25. To Cheer Someone Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: teen/general, non-sexual ageplay, brief spanking reference, and... yeah I think that's all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sure this chapter is fully ready; I feel like it could be better, but my train hit a car and derailed during my evening commute and I still can't sleep after seeing that so I'm focusing on something happy. On the positive side, one of my professors came and got me from the scene, and I learnt that her scare-the-first-years voice scares the hell out of police as well. They couldn't get rid of me fast enough...

John sighed before he even got the test result he'd been waiting for. As soon as Sarah looked at him, before she turned the screen to face him, he knew the news was bad. He stared grimly at the images before him, acknowledging that this was just one of those situations in which he didn't know what to do for his patient. This situation would require someone else to intervene. John sighed again, then resigned himself to making the necessary call. Once he'd done that, he tried to focus on the rest of his patients for the day. It wasn't easy.

\---

Greg flinched when he noticed the missed call, and again when he listened to the voicemail. It had been a fortnight since a fight with a suspect had left Sherlock with a fractured arm and an unusually strong needy disposition. John had to work today, but Sherlock insisted on a new x-ray at exactly fourteen days, in the hopes that they could go back at the end of John's shift and remove the cast which was annoying him so badly that at least twice Greg had caught him gnawing on it. Since Greg had some holiday time that he needed to use up anyway, he'd volunteered to take the day off, bring Sherlock to the clinic for his x-rays, and then entertain him for the rest of the day.

They were walking in the park, collecting leaves for an experiment, when Greg got the message. Not enough healing had occurred for John to feel comfortable removing the cast. Another check-up in two weeks. How the hell was he going to tell Sherlock the news? If he didn't suddenly become little and pitch an outright tantrum, he was going to go all quietly moody, or sarcastically furious… or worse, all of the above. Greg wasn't sure it was possible to do all those things at once, but he was confident that Sherlock could find a way. He very carefully refused to consider the possibility that, given Sherlock's history, he could make even worse choices than that in response to the bad news.

Before Greg had time to consider it, he'd gotten a text from Mycroft, demanding that he bring Sherlock back to Baker Street. He sighed, relieved. John had at least called in reinforcements for him. A moment later, he noticed a black saloon pull up at the end of the path ahead of them, and he stepped a bit faster to catch up to Sherlock. "I think your brother wishes to see us," he said, pointing towards the vehicle. Sherlock huffed and grumbled, but after a brief evaluation of his exit options, he elected to go towards the car. While he still sought ways to yank his brother's chain at every opportunity, his need to rebel had eased greatly since he and John had become romantically involved, a change that pleased everyone.

"There's bad news," Sherlock announced when the car left the neighbourhood instead of taking them to Greg and Mycroft's house. Greg tried not to flinch as he waited for Sherlock to begin solving the mystery, but instead, he simply went along for the ride. Or maybe he was solving it quietly in his head, but if so, it was probably the first time since Sherlock had first learned to speak, that he'd deduced anything without showing off.

Mycroft was already seated on the end of the sofa when they got to the flat, and Greg took a seat at the other end, guiding Sherlock to sit between them. The youngest of them was still quiet. Greg wondered just what sort of bad news he might be expecting, that he didn't even feel up to guessing at it. Maybe he thought they were going to tell him something had happened to his mother. Greg wrapped his arm around his friend and decided to just get it over with. "Sunshine, John called about your x-ray," he began.

"No, I need it off!" Sherlock practically shrieked, knowing exactly what was coming. He started to scramble up from the sofa, eyes locked on the front door, and Greg and Mycroft both lunged to grab him.

"He cannot take it off without hurting you!" he practically shouted over Sherlock, who was chanting "no" as his struggle to escape escalated. Greg wondered if Sherlock could even hear him, or if he was just operating on panic. Suddenly, Sherlock twisted free of Mycroft's arms, and only Greg was keeping him from fleeing the flat -- and he could feel himself losing grip. It was only a matter of seconds before the younger man would break free. "STOP!" he yelled, getting a bit desperate. The sheer volume seemed to shock Sherlock into squirming less ferociously in Greg's bear-hug grasp. "I know you're upset, but you need to let us look after you," he said, much more softly.

"Ridiculous; I'm perfectly able to look after myself," Sherlock snarled, "I'm not an invalid. I simply need to go to the medical supply shop and -- " Greg startled slightly as three loud sounds came in quick succession. Sherlock gasped, then clung to Greg, burying his face in the older man's jacket collar with a soft whimper. Once he was no longer focused on tracking Sherlock's movements, Greg realised exactly what had happened. Mycroft was standing behind them, wielding a kitchen spoon. Greg nearly chuckled; clearly, no one other than John had ever done that before.

"If you continue, there will be more of that," Mycroft said calmly as Sherlock's left hand reached back to rub his stinging bum. "If you calm yourself, we will look after you in a more pleasant manner."

"No spanking," came the petulant answer.

"No pitching a fit," Mycroft replied. Greg bit his lip to suppress a laugh. It wasn't funny, really… and yet, it was.

Sherlock kept silent for a moment, frustration coming off him in waves, before he nodded. "Sorry, Uncle Greg," he said softly, prompting the detective to squeeze his partner's little brother in a tight, supportive hug.

"All forgiven, Sunshine," Greg responded as he briskly rubbed Sherlock's upper back in a gesture of support. "I understand how upsetting this is. I was really looking forward to hearing good news, as well. What can we do to help make today a little better for you?"

"Ice cream?" he asked.

"We can have dessert with lunch," Greg answered. Sherlock grumbled slightly at that; he'd meant ice cream for lunch, not with. "You've got to eat nutrients that your body can use to mend your bone, Sherlock. But we can have treats alongside the good choices." Sherlock sighed, then nodded.

"I'll have ice cream delivered with lunch," Mycroft acknowledged, already taking his phone from his pocket to make the necessary calls. "Is there anything else we need?"

"A new toy?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft glared at such a presumptuous request from someone he'd just had to discipline like a small child, but when he saw the way his partner's face lit up at the request, he knew to let it go. No sense in wasting any effort on that argument; Greg would win it anyhow.

"Have someone bring the thing from my office," Greg told his lover. "It'll be perfect for today." Greg could feel Sherlock's disposition shift; he was suddenly a bit tense and squirmy with eager interest, instead of upset. No doubt he was just now realising that it was by design that Greg's office always seemed to have something interesting in it. He was shopping with Sherlock in mind, clearly.

"What thing?" Sherlock asked. "What's in your office?" Greg smiled at his curiosity, and patted his shoulder.

"You'll see, Sunshine." Sherlock made a displeased noise, but he nodded and settled down. "In the meantime, go choose a film to watch, all right?" Sherlock grinned in a way that made Mycroft cringe. He knew what was about to happen, and he wasn't happy about it. Sure enough, a minute later the sound of Mr Bean filled the flat, and it wasn't even the good (relatively speaking) version, it was the cheesy Americanised film version. And worse, Greg settled Sherlock on the sofa and then indicated that Mycroft should sit and watch that cinematic abomination with him, while Greg… went away.

The sounds of his lover making tea in the kitchen soothed Mycroft a bit, though he remained irritated by the film. He was relieved when Greg returned, finally, with two mugs. Mycroft took one with a thankful nod, and Greg sat down with the other, easing a bottle from his pocket. Sherlock nearly squeaked with pleased surprise when he saw his pirate bottle. As if they did it all the time, he easily found his way to Greg's arms, letting the elder man cradle him and hold the bottle for him. Greg smiled at that. After a week ago, when Sherlock had first asked for a cuddle with him, he'd learned from John that Sherlock had expected his request to be denied. Why, Greg still wasn't sure, but evidently it had to do with some early deductions Sherlock had made about Greg when they'd first met -- which is to say, when they'd both been in far worse places than they were today. Greg had set John right on the matter of his willingness to participate in Sherlock's littleness, and apparently John had relayed that to Sherlock.

\---

When John got home from work, he approached a bit carefully. The flat sounded quiet, but he had no idea what that meant. So it was with both relief and surprise that he discovered Greg and Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, making a mess with what John hoped was a child-friendly, highly washable chemistry-like toy that had to do with mixing colours -- and smearing them all over the table, apparently.

Sherlock brightened when he saw John. "Uncle Greg's helping me make colours," he announced.

Greg nodded. "We made bath bombs, and explored the way colours blend on wicking papers like coffee filters, and right now we're making new crayons in the oven."

"In the oven," John repeated, mildly frustrated by the constant repurposing of food service equipment for… well, everything but. But he also opened the oven with a curious smile, to have a look.

"We picked out colours I don't like very much, decided what we could mix them with to make them nicer, and then we ground it all up and we put it in the muffin pan," Sherlock explained.

"What are you doing with them now that they've melted?" John asked. Greg smiled at that, and got up from the table.

"Come on, Sherlock, it's time to stir!" With a flourish, he pulled the pan out of the oven and plopped it down on a couple folded towels he'd already arranged on the counter. He then grabbed a steel kebab skewer and stood at the ready. "Which ones shall we mix up all the way?" Sherlock pointed at four colour blends, and Greg dutifully stirred them to fully-mixed. "And which did you want swirled a bit?" The boy pointed at three, and Greg again stirred, until Sherlock said to stop. That job done, Greg put the whole pan into the refrigerator, on top of a packet of kidneys that John just did not want to know what they were there for. Or whose they were, for that matter. "When the crayons cool, we can colour the leaf project," Greg informed John, who had no idea what the leaf project was, either, but he was glad everything seemed calm.

"Mycroft coming for dinner?" John asked. Greg and Sherlock went quiet and turned to look at one another, then peered at the sofa. "Was Mycroft here at some point today?"

"He was over there… we did wear him out a bit earlier," Greg said. Sherlock nodded his agreement. "Oh, he went to take a nap," Greg remembered. "Probably in Sherlock's room. He said to wake him for dinner… on Thursday… next week."

"I'll take care of dinner on one condition," John said after a moment of thought. "Don't ever explain to me what you did to manage to exhaust Mycroft so thoroughly." The fact that Greg and Sherlock instantly agreed, without even trying to negotiate what was for dinner, confirmed John's suspicions. He really, really did not want to know what went on around here while he was at the clinic.


	26. To avoid work/cleaning/study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen, possibly a little mature. Non-sexual age play with mild medical aspects. It's just common stuff a parent might do to care for a toddler, but I know medical-related triggers can be tough. For those who aren't sure about it, you can scroll to the end of chapter and check the end notes, where I've added further content information.
> 
> Hey wait! This one had a beta reader! With thanks to Kuramag33, without whom I might have foolishly edited out half this chapter.

John shuffled through the flat towards the kitchen, eager for that first cup of tea. He made a noise of greeting at Sherlock as he passed the man who was sitting on the floor by his desk, then whirled around as his brain processed what he'd seen. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, yes, but he wasn't sorting the stack of papers under the desk, like John first assumed. No, he was sitting, legs sprawled in front of him, with his box of Meccano between his knees. John could tell by his curious expression and slow movements that he was engaged in experimental play, but what really caught his eye was that Sherlock was wearing a baby shirt and boxer shorts, the snapped bit between his legs giving the appearance of one of Harry's childhood dance costumes. The look was… disquieting, at best. John wondered how he'd managed to get the snaps done, when he couldn't even put his shoes on with one arm in a cast.

It took an embarrassingly long moment to realise that clearly, Sherlock was making John dress him as a way of amusing himself.

"Sherlock, we're cleaning the flat today, remember?" John asked. "You can play after we're done."

"I'm sorting my toys, this is cleaning," the detective replied.

John rolled his eyes. "In your dinosaur shirt?" he asked. The clothing choice, which typically indicated a forecast of high levels of irresponsibility, didn't exactly support the assertion that cleaning was occurring.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's comfortable."

John sighed and returned to the quest for tea. Of course the shirt was comfortable. It was a soft cotton knit, compared to the starched shirts he usually wore, made of blends of the latest synthetic fibres which were more for the dry cleaners' convenience than for comfort. But, as long as he was actually going to help clean, John supposed it didn't matter what he wore.

Another sigh escaped John when he returned to the room with his freshly-made tea. Sherlock was clearly, clearly not cleaning. He'd gotten out a second box and was obviously rummaging for a particular part. John dropped into Sherlock's chair. "Sherlock? That's not cleaning." The younger man grunted but didn't stop. "Sherlock, look at me," John instructed. Sherlock stopped moving and turned a blank expression up to meet John's eyes. For a moment, he wondered what Sherlock was hiding, but then he saw it. Sherlock's eyes were practically shining… not the bright, clear eyes of someone who's just beginning the day, but the glassy, unfocused look of a sick child, just energetic enough that his misery looked like a bad attitude, at first.

Employing a bit of his own brand of detective skills, John evaluated his partner. Not terribly verbal, even though he was working on what looked like the sort of complex engineering project that he often talked his way through. Probable sore throat. No tea made, and he didn't ask for John to make him some. Swallowing was probably uncomfortable; likely some swelling in the area. John had slept through the night, so probably little to no sneezing or coughing, but Sherlock had dragged a spare blanket onto the bed, so he was likely restless and achy, maybe with a headache. Which would explain why the drapes were firmly shut, with their edges tucked against the windows. And, John's memory supplied, the spare blanket he'd dragged out was a winter-weight blanket, which Sherlock, being something of a natural furnace, only sort-of slept under even on the coldest nights. So, probably chills, which could indicate fever. Some sort of throat infection, which for this particular patient usually indicated a need for antibiotic treatment. John shuddered internally at the thought of getting him to ingest one such pill, let alone two a day for the next week and a half. That battle could wait, though.

"All right, you work on sorting your toys," John said after a moment. "I'll start in the kitchen." John spent the next hour putting away and washing up. Sherlock had gotten up and gone quietly back to bed twenty minutes in, and John pretended not to notice as he moved on to the next room. Less washing and more stacking things for Sherlock to deal with later since he wasn't sure what to keep or toss, but he was at least able to restore order to the room after three weeks of cases one after another. The criminal classes, evidently, had tried their hand at overachieving, this past month.

"A nap sounds like a great idea," John said softly when he found Sherlock tucked in and reading on his phone. "I'll scrub the loo later." He slipped into bed and came up behind Sherlock, one arm draping over him. Even through their clothes, John could feel how warm he was. Definitely a fever.

"Just do what you want," Sherlock grumbled after a moment. "I know you've noticed, you're not that subtle."

"I don't need to do anything," John said, only half meaning it. He needed to evaluate and treat the infection, but it could wait. Sherlock's irritable huffy sigh gave John pause, though. "Do you… want me to have a look?"

In response, he moaned unhappily with a hiss, in a halfway-decent attempt at trying to make his "yes" answer as indiscernible as possible.

John tried and failed to suppress a chuckle. "You must feel pretty terrible if you don't want to put it off. I'll go get my things." He ignored Sherlock's half-hearted argument about how he just wanted to get it over with, stepping into the closet to grab his medical kit. What had started out as bandages and some burn cream had, over the years, grown to be practically a GP's office in a bag, as Sherlock's hatred (phobia..?) of all things medical had continued to be an issue. It was a wonder he'd agreed to share a flat with a doctor, given his apparent fear of them. John made a mental note to ask Mycroft about the underlying issues involved, although he knew from experience that whenever he saw Mycroft, he usually was so busy thinking about other things that he forgot to ask questions like this.

Standing over his patient who'd flopped over on his back and was periodically whimpering softly in abject misery, John peered into his ears and nose. His request to see Sherlock's throat only got him a louder whimper, so John moved on to feeling for swollen lymph nodes around his neck and jaw. Sherlock flinched and squeaked as his hands brushed over one particularly swollen, tender area, but his distress gave way to a happier sound when John rubbed at his shoulders a bit. "Can I please see your throat?" he asked after he'd checked everything else. Sherlock shook his head once. "Why?"

"Hurts to open," he answered. Immediately, John was on high alert.

"What hurts? Where?" Sherlock pointed to his throat, right under his chin. "What about here?" John asked, touching tense jaw muscles. Sherlock shook his head at that.

"Not tetanus," he answered. "Nor mumps. Throat just hurts a lot when I open too far."

"Sounds like tonsillitis again," John answered. "What format would you prefer your antibiotic in?"

"Liquid." John's eyebrows shot up at that answer. Sherlock hated liquid medicines, especially the sort that were just powder or granules suspended in an imitation-sugar syrup, as many antibiotics were. If he wanted that, he had to feel incredibly bad right now.

"Can I get you some paracetamol?" he offered. Sherlock shook his head. "Why not?"

"THAT liquid, I cannot tolerate. Revolting. Won't stay down."

"We have pills," John offered, but Sherlock was already shaking his head. "You need something to help with the pain and fever so you can sleep… you want me to get suppositories?" he asked, making the joke that he knew would prompt his partner to swallow a tablet. Outside of a sexual or age play scene, Sherlock despised being touched there.

To his great shock, Sherlock nodded instead, looking utterly, completely miserable. However mild the infection might be, clearly the symptoms were not. "Let's check your fever…" he muttered, grabbing for the thermometer.

"No temperature, Daddy!" Sherlock whined, pulling the blanket over his head. Daddy..? John blinked in surprise. Yes, Sherlock typically aged down when he wasn't feeling well, but usually there was some advance warning to it. He'd been interacting like an adult just moments ago, John was sure of it… wasn't he? "Hurts too much," Sherlock added.

John frowned, confused. How could a thermometer hurt… oh. His partner had been fairly swollen and tender in the surrounding lymph nodes, and one area in particular near the floor of his mouth tended to swell in response to throat infections. Odd, but John had seen something like it before, in the army. One of his fellow soldiers had a habit of getting sinus infections, often foreshadowed by a particular lymph node swelling behind his ear. "Can we trade?" John tried. "No thermometer and no pills, and you let me look at your throat for three seconds? I need at least one of the two to confirm the diagnosis." Sherlock glared, but nodded, and John prepared himself with his light and a tongue depressor. "Okay, open big, love," he said softly, and Sherlock opened his mouth, eyes scrunching up in response to pain. "One piccadilly," John counted as he surveyed the red, swollen mess, "two piccadilly, okay done. See? Didn't even need all three seconds." Sherlock whinged again, but John could tell by the look in his eyes that he appreciated John's care for his comfort during the exam.

John sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to face Sherlock. "I'm going to get your medicine," he explained. "Is there anything else you'd like me to get while I'm out? They have ice cream at the shop." Sherlock shook his head once, then paused and nodded. "All right, ice cream for my little one," John said with an indulgent smile. "We have those throat numbing lozenges in the loo if you'd like." Sherlock clutched at John in a needy hug, but let go and laid back down after John kissed his forehead several times. "I'll be quick about it," he promised as he left.

\---

John glanced up at the window nervously as he approached the flat. He'd made a couple of executive decisions while waiting for Sherlock's prescription, and he wasn't sure how they were going to go over with the younger man. After a momentary bout of nerves, he made his way upstairs, putting the ice cream away before heading to the bedroom where his partner was curled under the blanket. "I've got your medicines, and you can have the ice cream as soon as you've taken them."

"What else?" Sherlock asked. John sighed. Sometimes, when Sherlock was little, he missed those subtle cues that Big Sherlock had made a professional identity out of noticing. Today was not one of those days.

"You've got a lot of pain and swelling," John started. "I ordered a short course of steroids to reduce inflammation, to help reduce your pain without the addiction risk. It's a liquid, but I'm afraid there's not much we can do about the taste, sorry."

"And?" Sherlock asked.

"And a different sort of thermometer," John answered. Sherlock moaned unhappily as he pulled the blankets over his head. "This one doesn't go under your tongue," he jumped to explain.

"Is it the forehead kind?" Sherlock asked, easing the blanket down just enough to peer at John. "You said those aren't good enough."

"They aren't," John acknowledged. When the clinic had gotten their first digital temperature scanner and John had brought it home to practise using it, Sherlock had made it his mission to discover ten ways to create a false reading, a goal which he achieved in under an hour. It worked fine for patients, but John knew better than to trust its accuracy on his partner.

"I don't like things in my ears, it hurts," Sherlock reminded him.

John nodded. "I know, your ears are just not designed for that."

"Then… how does it work?" Sherlock asked, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"Er…" John began, feeling his ears go hot with embarrassment. "You can say no; we made a deal and I will honour it. But, I thought since you asked for paracetamol suppositories, that it might be all right if… well, it might be all right to use a thermometer there, as well." Sherlock blinked, frowning thoughtfully.

"Can I see?" he asked.

John breathed a sigh of relief. This was a good sign, he decided, as he took the device out of its packaging. "See?" he said, handing it over. "It's thin and flexible, and only this little part here goes in." He bit his lip, suppressing the urge to vent nervousness by babbling pointlessly. Sherlock turned the item over in his hands, tested the flexibility, and then passed it back to John.

"Can you turn over a bit for me?" John asked. Sherlock moved, and threw the blanket partly back with one weary hand. "Good boy," John said encouragingly, even though Sherlock had only managed to draw one leg up and forward a bit. It was close enough, John decided as he reached between Sherlock's legs to un-snap his shirt, and relieved him of sweat-dampened boxers. He gently spread Sherlock's cheeks, noting by how hard Sherlock tensed at the sensation that he was likely expecting something incredibly unpleasant. John touched the device against his entrance and waited for Sherlock's body to relax and accept the coming intrusion, like a nurse had once shown him to do with small children. "It's all right, love, Daddy isn't going to hurt you," John muttered reassuringly add he stroked Sherlock's back comfortingly.

"Promise?" Sherlock asked.

"Your muscles can stretch a lot bigger than this without hurting, so yes."

"Like to fit around you," Sherlock said. John internally grumbled at that. He'd been working so hard at not reacting to the lovely view before him, and he was succeeding fairly well, until Sherlock pointed that out. He quietly adjusted his trousers and made plans to sort himself out next time he had a moment in the loo. Sherlock's muscles relaxed after a moment, and John eased the probe to its proper place for the few seconds it took to get a reading. "102," John muttered, dismayed, and glad he'd insisted on paracetamol. It would take the edge off, at least.

"But I feel so cold," Sherlock whined.

"I know, love," John said. "That's what all this medicine is for." He opened the packet and paused for a moment, before deciding Sherlock's needs were best served by just hurrying it along. "All right, paracetamol next," he said as the pain reliever and his finger slipped inside his partner's body. John held still for just a moment before withdrawing his finger, trying to move slowly and gently. "You want to go to bed without pants?" John asked after he'd washed his hands and measured out the liquids for his partner.

Sherlock swallowed the bright pink liquid without complaint, further worrying John with his unusual level of obedience. "Nappy, please," he requested in reply.

John suppressed a sigh. He'd prefer fewer clothes to help vent the excess heat, but Sherlock had cooperated brilliantly with everything else, so… John pulled out Sherlock's favourite one and put it on him. "Better?" he asked once he'd fastened it around his partner. "Not too snug?" Sherlock tugged at the waistband as if to test, then nodded his approval. John completed the task by pulling his shirt down over the nappy and doing up the snaps between Sherlock's legs before patting his little one on the leg. 

"Ice cream?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled. "Yes, all right, ice cream, and then right to sleep."

Sherlock was still arguing against a nap when he finished his ice cream. John sighed. As frustrating as it was, he knew Sherlock was being like this because he felt awful and likely didn't want to be left alone. John glanced around at the chores that still needed doing, then pulled his own pyjamas on and crawled into the bed, grabbing a book on the way. A lazy afternoon of reading in bed would be nice, after all, and cleaning could wait just one more day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who need a content preview before reading, this chapter involves a very basic exam, just looking and touching, with hands and a tongue depressor. Oral medication, a paracetamol suppository, and a rectal temperature reading are all done with consent and cooperation of the patient.
> 
> And for anyone who feels that John over-treated Sherlock, it's possible that you're right, but I'd like to point out that I just got released from hospital, where I was being treated for an effing ear infection. Medicine, it's an art, and not all canvases behave as expected.


	27. To Celebrate Weight Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated EXPLICIT for sexual daddy-kink play, a soother used to muffle Sherlock (as if that'd ever work) and a bit of dominance from John, as you'd expect. All parties involved clearly consent to and enjoy the proceedings.
> 
> For those who choose to give this one a miss, before you go, I'd like to ask (again) for your prayers and good thoughts for a truly enormous problem I'm having at uni. Long story short, today I had to file a legal complaint regarding one of my profesors (evidence abounds, as they didn't bother to conceal their actions). I'm all right, but... seriously, classes, homework, house, family, job, grandma... I had enough going on without this.

"I lost the third pound!"

John jumped slightly at the unexpected shout, then smiled as his brain registered his partner's happy tone. Sherlock bounded into the room. "I lost the third pound!" he repeated excitedly.

"That's wonderful," John said without lifting his eyes from his book. "I'm really glad." In truth, he thought Sherlock looked better with just a tiny bit more weight on him, but he was within a healthy weight range either way, and Sherlock preferred himself at his pre-illness weight. Anyway, John had a nagging suspicion that someone with Sherlock's personal history could be more easily nudged into developing some sort of eating disorder, and even though he had no research to support the theory, that was the last thing they needed to add to Sherlock's list of issues. Bad enough that John had had to resort to giving him a steroid, which sometimes causes weight gain, for his recent throat infection. Any other patient with pain that severe would get a short course of pain medication to get through it, but given Sherlock's history, John preferred the risks of prednisone over the risks of painkillers for his lover.

He looked up at Sherlock to repeat his polite acknowledgement -- and found himself staring at six feet of stark naked detective. It was a glorious sight; even his deep blue cast somehow managed to look stunning in this context. Sherlock grinned when he saw he'd caught John's focus. "Look! You can see my hips again!" He turned to wriggle his bum at John, who could definitely see his hips, but probably not at all in the way Sherlock had in mind. Unable to resist the temptation, John darted one hand out to slap Sherlock's bum, making his partner squawk in surprise as he whirled around to face John. His wide eyes gave way to a devilish grin.

"Have I been naughty?" Sherlock asked as he lowered himself to straddle John's lap. John had known from the start that getting involved with someone who was naturally socially inept on top of the standard-issue British social ineptitude, was going to lead to awkwardness, especially in sexual matters, but damn. It was all he could do to not laugh at the way Sherlock came across like an inexperienced teen trying to be suave by following the example of his favourite online porn clip.

Then his partner squirmed _just so_ , and John lost all ability to care about anything else, not even the cast digging into his shoulder just a bit. "Oh, yes," he responded more breathily than he'd intended. "Very naughty, I think," he added, swatting with both open hands. Sherlock moaned deliciously and practically collapsed against John. "I should take you to the bedroom and deal with you properly."

Sherlock leaned in close, so close John could feel his breath tickling John's ear. "All right, Daddy." Oh. Ohhh. So that's the game he wanted to play. They'd done this before, but only two or three times, usually because Sherlock had accidentally called John "Daddy" in the midst of sex. This was, as best John could remember, the first time that he seemed like he was trying to specifically suggest this game -- unless the other times weren't as accidental as they'd seemed, anyway. John nudged him, encouraging Sherlock to get up, and then he led the younger man to their bedroom.

"Right," he said, glancing about the room for ideas as he hastily planned something approximating a scene. "Bend over Daddy's bed," he commanded. Sherlock obeyed, arching his back and even rising up on his toes to accent his bottom as much as possible. He gave a low, mischievous chuckle when he heard John's strangled moan at the spectacular view. After clutching the bed frame for a moment to regain his wits, John brought his hand down sharply on the lovely arse before him, working steadily to turn it a brilliant shade of light reddish-pink as Sherlock squirmed and moaned his delight. John wondered idly what others thought of the sounds they regularly heard from the couple's bedroom; surely the slapping noise had to be audible from downstairs, and possibly next door as well. Even if not, John was absolutely certain that Sherlock's lustful moans could be heard from every unit that shared an architectural feature with their flat. After all, his much quieter moan of misery when he caught a cold could be heard from downstairs. It was how Mrs Hudson always knew when to make her famous chicken soup for her favourite tenant.

Sherlock gave a particularly loud, eager moan when John's hand spanked perilously close to his bits. On a whim, John grabbed a soother from the nightstand drawer and nudged it into Sherlock's mouth. The change in sound quality was instant; his young charge's noises were muffled, but John could tell that he was obviously more turned-on than he had been even a moment ago. The sound had John shifting his hips, suddenly very uncomfortable in tight, increasingly damp trousers. He'd had the idea to drag this session out for a while, really tease Sherlock to the limit, but as he watched the squirming bottom, he suddenly could only think of one thing, which he needed to do _right now._

With an amused smile at his own eagerness, John stopped and pumped a bit of lotion from the bottle on the bedside table. He gently rubbed it into the warm, reddened skin and Sherlock's moans turned to needy whimpers. The soother fell out of his mouth as he cooed at the cooling sensation. John reached to the nightstand again, but this time he reached for the lube dispenser instead of lotion. Sherlock noticed the difference immediately, of course. Anyone could have, in fairness, just by the fact that John massaged it into his tight entrance, fingers dipping inside as he tested his partner's readiness.

"What are you doing, Daddy?" Sherlock asked, squirming slightly. He probably wouldn't admit to something so common and mundane, but John had guessed by the ways in which Sherlock provoked him that a bit of dirty talk was a massive turn-on to the detective. It was a fine line to walk -- Sherlock being Sherlock, of course, he preferred an unusual approach, often a mix of proper terminology and childish terms, with a few explicit words to make it edgy. It was an odd preference, but one that the doctor was perhaps uniquely qualified to provide.

"I'm lubricating your bottom and stretching your anal muscles so I can fuck you," John answered.

Sherlock gave a shuddery, eager little sigh. "Do I really deserve that?" he asked.

John could no longer remember whether he was supposed to be punishing or rewarding Sherlock, in this game. He rolled his eyes at himself, then decided it didn't matter anyway. The game would play out the same way, regardless. "Don't you think you deserve it?" he asked in reply. Sherlock turned just enough that John could see the innocent, almost pleading look in his bright, expressive eyes as he nodded slowly. _Ahhh. Supposed to be a punishment, going by that look._ And John could tell by the sparkle that lay beneath, that Sherlock was looking forward to it just as much as John was.

John unfastened his trousers and pulled his clothes off clumsily with one hand, while he added a bit more lube with the other, taking a moment to ensure they were both adequately prepared before pressing himself against Sherlock's entrance. His partner gave a theatrical whine of dismay that was so overplayed, John had to bite his lip to avoid laughing as he eased his cock inside, filling Sherlock with a slow but relentless pressure until he was buried completely. "All right?" he asked as he leaned over, hands caressing the younger man's shoulders and arms. Sherlock shook his head and held up one finger in a "wait" gesture, taking deep breaths as he adjusted to John's presence inside his body. John waited patiently until, moments later, Sherlock nodded.

John pulled nearly all the way out before sliding in again, faster but still carefully as Sherlock whined at the sensation. "I'm going to fuck your naughty bottom now," he said softly, his use of the word 'naughty' giving advanced warning of what was to come. Sherlock nodded and made an affirmative sound. This time, John's thrust was hard and fast, gripping Sherlock's hips to hold himself as deep as possible. Sherlock's whine gave way to a deep moan as his hand flew back, curling around John's hip to tug him closer in an unspoken request for more, before it slid to John's front in a defensive gesture that he clearly didn't mean. John smiled at that; unlike some previous lovers who had a knack for confusing him, Sherlock's love for role-play reluctance was always balanced with clear signs of consent.

"Don't try to stop me," John said teasingly, taking Sherlock's hand in his and putting it back on the bed. "You're not in charge here, I am." Sherlock's muscles tensed around John in response, drawing a harsh moan from them both as John pulled back and slid in again, keeping his movements sudden and jerky.

Sherlock's moans got more desperate with each hard thrust as John gradually increased his speed. "Augh, go slow, Daddy!" he moaned more than said as his hips wiggled slightly, unable to hold still against John's deliciously relentless attention.

"No, you need it hard and fast," John answered as he continued.

"But -- oh, Daddy, ahh… oh, so good, John…" John chuckled at Sherlock's cries. The detective, for all his skill at presenting himself a certain way professionally, was positively dismal at roleplay scenes, especially when they involved punishment. No matter how hard he tried to stay in character, he just couldn't.

"Yeah, I'm doing a good job disciplining you?" John asked, trying to roll with it and hoping that he didn't sound too absurd. Last time he'd said something like that, Sherlock had burst into laughter hard enough that they'd had to stop for several minutes, something that John would love _not_ to do at this moment.

To his great relief, Sherlock nodded instead of laughing. "Yes, Daddy," he intoned between eager groans that punctuated each thrust as he lay on the bed, too overwhelmed with pleasure to do anything more. "Please, come," he begged. "Can't wait, please." Sherlock was so thoroughly enjoying it that he wasn't able to hold back much longer, and John knew how much he hated the sensation of continuing past his own climax. Just the thought that he'd done this to Sherlock, that John had pushed him so close to the edge that he couldn't control himself, was nearly all John needed… that thought combined with one more thrust, and he fell still, pulsing deep inside his lover's body, completely unable to process sensory information beyond the cool, shivery sensation rippling through his body, this way and that as it dissipated. After a moment, John was able to think clearly enough to reach for Sherlock's length, but he found a hand already there, frantically stroking. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's, helping him the last little bit of the way to his goal, holding on as his lover's moans announced his own completion.

Sherlock held still for a minute or so, then rose up on shaky, exhausted legs and wrapped wet hands around John, who frowned with distaste at the sensation of wetness permeating his shirt. "Lovely," he groused.

"Your fault," Sherlock answered cheekily.

John smacked his bum playfully in response. "Come on, shower time," he said, leading his lover to the next room.


	28. "Let's Get it On" Playing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen for a tiny bit of ageplay as a stress-management strategy, and also sexual suggestion that's more mild than the song referenced in this chapter's prompt. Also, I'd never heard of this song before this. Had to look it up on youtube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone else hasn't heard of this song, "Let's Get it On" is by Marvin Gaye.
> 
> This chapter is in honour of maaaaaybe having made it through the semester. We'll see, when final grades are released. Also, since the last chapter got good response, a recommendation for those who enjoy D/s or bdsm stories, and are of the proper age to be reading this stuff in your jurisdiction: the Collars and Cuffs series by KC Wells and Parker Williams. It may be available at your local library's e-library collection, but if not, it's available from several e-book dealers and is super affordable when bought in two multi-book volumes. And now you all know what I'm planning to do with Grandma's traditional Christmas Amazon gift card (shortly before I figure out how to configure the parent controls to keep my niece from finding out Aunt Mocha has a thing for gay romance…)

John wasn't sure what he'd expected to find when he came downstairs, but what he found, was definitely not it. He stood at the doorway of the kitchen, watching Sherlock making tea. Or, more specifically, making tea while dancing around the kitchen, humming… something.

"… let's get it off…"

Oh god. Not humming. Singing. John leaned against the doorframe, his eyebrows raised in a distinctly unimpressed expression as he waited for his presence to be noticed. "You know what I'm talking about," Sherlock continued, "come on, daddy, let my arm out…"

Sherlock whirled around, reaching for the refrigerator handle when he caught sight of John watching him and came to a stop, looking a bit sheepish. "Er… good morning," Sherlock said.

John bit his cheek to try to minimise his laughter. "What are you singing?"

Sherlock blinked at him, as if the answer was so obvious that he had to think of how to phrase it politely. Well, as politely as Sherlock ever gets, anyway. "Let's Get It On."

John blinked. The answer didn't clarify anything. "What are you on about?"

"Marvin Gaye, John. Do keep up."

John rubbed at his temples briefly. "At some point, we need to discuss scaling back your exposure to American radio."

"It's a classic!" Sherlock argued.

John rubbed at his temples more vigorously. "Sherlock, it's a song about sex."

"That's a classic, too."

John let his head fall against the doorframe, hard enough to make a solid thump. The smooth, low notes in Sherlock's joking tone coursed through his veins, making him shiver with thoughts that, however pleasant, he'd prefer to save for a more convenient time of day. "Sherlock…" His thoughts were interrupted by a mug being pressed into his hands.

"Finish your tea, John, you said we'd go to the clinic this morning!" Before John could respond, Sherlock was bounding off to sit on the sofa, where his shoes were already waiting.

John sighed deeply. On one hand, he despised being rushed. He wasn't wild about Sherlock using the term "daddy" in a song about sex, either. He didn't mind when Sherlock put the two concepts together himself; that was often brilliant, actually. But in the context of a suggestive song... somehow, that felt wrong. But on the other hand, this was the fastest he'd ever seen Sherlock get up and ready for the day, without a murder mystery to entice him.

"Impatient," John observed, taking a careful sip of the hot drink.

Sherlock looked up from his seat on the sofa, where he was struggling with his shoelaces. "I've been perfectly patient, but I haven't seen my arm in a month, John!"

"You're lucky it healed that fast," came the quick retort. Sherlock made a disinterested noise and shrugged dismissively.

John sighed. Sherlock's glee was going to infect him anyway, so he might as well just let it happen. He poured his tea into a proper travel mug with a lid that wouldn't piss off the cab driver, and walked over to the sofa. "Here, let me," he said as he knelt to tie Sherlock's shoes. John looked up into the frustrated turquoise eyes glaring down at him. "Last time I get to do this for you," John pointed out, although he had the distinct impression that, as is the case for real parents, he was possibly the only one who felt remotely sentimental about Sherlock becoming more independent.

"Nonsense," Sherlock answered. "After a month of immobility, I'll have lost strength and dexterity."

"And we'll do physiotherapy, you and I, to fix that," John said, "and part of that is that you will tie your own shoes." Another dismissive sound came, and John instinctively drew back to keep from being knocked cockeyed by the accompanying hand gesture that, with the cast, Sherlock had become unspeakably graceless at. Once they were done with the shoe-tying, Sherlock bounced to his feet, already tugging at John's arm.

"Wait, wait wait," John said, pulling back even as he rose to stand. "Sherlock… before we go, I need to ask you something, and you need to consider it seriously." Sherlock tried to freeze mid-shrug into his coat, causing it to flop down on top of his head before he got out from underneath the behemoth and draped it over one arm as if he'd meant for that to happen. "How old are you feeling, today?"

Sherlock shuffled a bit, with a couple of sighs. "A bit young, I think," he answered after a very long moment. "Not… not very, but… well, a bit."

John nodded. He'd sort of suspected. He'd read about some people tending to shift to a younger age when they were excited, and Sherlock certainly was that, but he suspected this... emergence of youthfulness, Joh decided to call it, was more driven by his partner's anxiety about their clinic visit. This was, rather remarkably, Sherlock's first broken bone, and even though he understood the process intellectually, he was probably worried about letting John come at him with a power saw. "Go get your sling on, and tuck Smaug into it."

"But--"

"Once the cast comes off, you'll need it to protect your arm for a day or two," John answered the argument before it began. He'd been letting Sherlock go without it for the past week or so, but he knew how unpleasant it felt to suddenly lose that shell of protection, and the sling would help with that.

"I could put my hand in my pocket instead," Sherlock offered.

"If you wear it, Smaug has a nice private pouch to ride in," John pointed out. Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it and made for the bedroom.

\---

John sighed as he stood at the doorway to his exam room. He knew it'd been too easy, this morning. Even with Sherlock's age starting to slip, everything had gone beautifully. And now they were having a battle of wits in the doorway, with the new nurse who didn't like John standing just down the hall, staring at them. "Sherlock, this is my office, you're safe here," John said softly. Sherlock shook his head, a miserable expression on his face. "Come on, love, you can do this. It's just me and you. I'll even lock the door, if you like, so it's just us."

"Can't you do it somewhere else?" Sherlock asked. John could feel fissures developing in his heart, at the plaintive, needy tone.

"It needs to be here, to contain the dust. We can't do it around the x-ray equipment and we really can't do it in the break room, around people's food." John stepped a little closer, close enough to whisper very softly. "I will keep you safe, Sherlock. Nothing is going to happen in here, that you haven't agreed to." He paused for just a moment, and then just… went for it. "Daddy's going to take your cast off, and then help you wash up and protect your arm with a little bandage, just like we discussed last night."

John watched the trepidation warring with trust, in Sherlock's eyes. "I… want to," the younger man admitted. "Scary."

John nodded in understanding. He'd, of course, still forgotten to ask Mycroft about this phobia -- and it definitely was a phobia, he'd decided. Not that he was qualified to diagnose it, but the label helped him understand Sherlock's near-terror of John's profession. John glanced over his shoulder and took inventory of the exam room. Medical office furniture appeared to be a trigger, but borrowing the other doctor's overly cushy chair wasn't an option today. "Do you want to sit in Daddy's chair?" John offered. The seating options were incredibly limited. "Or the floor? I can sit on the floor with you. We have to be in this room, but the rest is up to you."

"On the floor, facing the door, so I don't have to see anything else?" Sherlock asked in reply.

John smiled, relieved. "Facing any direction you prefer," he assured. Sherlock grabbed for his hand, trembling as he stepped into the office, whirled around, and collapsed to the floor all in one motion. John drew a breath, reminding himself to be patient with his lover; as irritating as this was for John, just getting in the door was a huge accomplishment for Sherlock. "Take your coat off while I get my tools."

When John sat down, it was with several items on a tray, and what looked like an angle grinder in his other hand. He scooted across the floor to the outlet to plug it in, then paused when he saw how pale Sherlock had gone. Even from a few feet away, he could see how badly his partner was trembling as he clutched his now-healed arm as if to hide it from the big scary doctor. John put everything down and put his hands on Sherlock's crossed legs. "Remember how we watched this on YouTube last week, when you first asked how it comes off? I'm going to cut it into two halves, and use a tool to push them apart so I can get my fingers round the pieces, and then once we get the fibreglass off, I'll use the safety scissors to cut the lining away, and then your arm will be there, just like new." John put his tools down so he could put on a pair of latex gloves.

"Why do you need those?" Sherlock asked, his good hand holding his arm protectively against his chest. "Gloves are for blood."

"They're for keeping things clean," John countered. "I don't want fibreglass dust on my hands. I don't like the way it feels, that's all." Finally, Sherlock took his arm from his sling and held it out to John, who smiled and turned on the saw. After a couple tests against his own hand to demonstrate its safety, he was able to start work. "You know," John muttered after he finished making his cuts and had started with the scissors. "You're the only patient I'll see on my day off."

"That's 'cause I'm yours," Sherlock answered. His expression was still worried, but his tone was a bit warmer, a little more confident. John counted that a win. And just a couple minutes later, another win as they stood at the sink, gently washing and then applying a soothing lotion to the newly exposed skin. John wrapped a simple elastic bandage around it, right there at the sink, then washed his hands again.

"All right. Sling, coat, Smaug, and then we can buy biscuits on the way home."

"And then what?" Sherlock asked as he reached for his coat.

"What do you want to do?" John asked in reply.

"I want to sing that song the right way when we get home," Sherlock answered.

"Done being little already?" he asked, trying desperately to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice. John had hoped to spend the afternoon in bed, but as he watched his lover melt into his little boy on the way to the clinic this morning, that had seemed to be off the menu. Now, however…

"I didn't want to be in the first place; it just sort of happened," Sherlock groused.

"Because you were experiencing fear," John idly explained, then realised that of course Sherlock already knew that. "And… you're in the mood for this, now?" John tried to be subtle about his own need for intimacy, more than willing to set it aside for Sherlock's needs, but he could tell by the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes, that he hadn't been successful.

"C'mon, John," Sherlock said softly as he grabbed John with his good arm. "Let's go home and… get it on…" he intoned, almost singing the words. John bit back a groan, at that. He was going to have to carry his coat over his arm for the trip home, now. Sherlock grinned broadly, a look of eager victory that bordered on smugness, and practically dragged John the whole way home.


	29. Nothing Good on Telly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is rated sort of teen/mature for sexual suggestion, similar to what you'd expect to see on Friends.
> 
> Happy Christmas! Or whatever you celebrate. Short scene, but it was a fun challenge, trying to figure out what to do with this prompt.

John took a deep, cleansing breath before he stepped into their flat after a long day at work. He surveyed the scene before him, taking it in with a sort of resignation that didn't even call for raising an eyebrow. Sherlock sprawled listlessly on the sofa, not remotely watching a children's television show which was playing at an unusually soft volume. Probably trying not to get caught out by Mrs Hudson, John realised.

"Sherlock..?" John asked, unsure what to make of this.

"It isn't working," Sherlock groused. He stabbed at the buttons on the remote control until the television fell silent.

"What isn't working?" John asked. "Were you trying to make yourself feel little?" he followed up, making the obvious deduction. Sherlock nodded, a supremely irritated look coming across his face. "Sherlock, you hate the quality of children's programming at this time of day. It never works for you. Why not just wait and ask me for help? Let's go get you changed."

John started towards the bedroom, but he stopped almost instantly when he realised that, instead of getting up and following him, Sherlock was just laying on the sofa, turning gradually redder. "Sherlock?" he asked. This time he didn't even try to figure it out.

"I tried that," Sherlock admitted, glancing towards his blanket-covered midsection with a disdainful look. "It didn't have the desired effect."

"What does that mean?" John asked. "What effect did it -- " he suddenly stopped, and re-evaluated the sheepish, embarrassed look on his partner's face. "Oh," he said softly. "So you're--" he started, then stopped.

"Turned on, instead," Sherlock answered miserably. John suppressed a chuckle at his partner's unusually concise response.

John stretched out a hand in a gesture of invitation. "You should definitely let me take you to bed, then," he said with a smile.


	30. She wants to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated mature (well, sort of) for a sexually suggestive comment.
> 
> Also, I decided that the original prompt indicated a sort of role reversal.

Sherlock glanced over at John, slightly worried, as he loaded the clothes washer. Usually John chided him for stuffing too much into the poor thing. Usually he noticed when Sherlock hung his coat on John's coat peg, and washed John's whites with his purple shirt, too, for that matter. Today, however….

While Sherlock tried and failed to get his attention by misbehaving, John made tea, with the focus of a dog whose owner has left a steak within reach, but hasn't quite diverted his focus enough to allow the dog to steal it. His left hand trembled slightly as he prepared the mugs. When he thought Sherlock wasn't watching him, John threw worried glances towards the younger man. He stepped awkwardly around the small kitchen, as if…

…as if his leg was hurting.

"Whatever about tonight reminded you of Afghanistan, it's all right," Sherlock said. He expected an argument, but the doctor merely nodded in reply. All right, so yes, he was right, something about tonight had caused a sort of flashback, perhaps. Sherlock mentally picked through the evening, searching for potential triggers. The suspect had drawn a weapon. John had threatened to return fire, completely disintegrating the suspect's bravado. He'd made an abrupt move, causing Sherlock to fall about ten feet to the pavement from a small balcony, taking a restaurant awning with him in a spectacularly comical moment that would have made even sitcom writers roll their eyes. It had been relatively mundane, Sherlock thought. No bleeding, no explaining bullet holes in the parked cars, just a sore spot on his bum from that idiotic -- oh. The fall. It wasn't remotely like another fall from a lifetime ago, but John's triggers didn't pay nearly as much mind to logic as Sherlock thought they should. So the return of the psychosomatic limp had to do with the memory of losing Sherlock, rather than his own trauma… interesting. Sherlock let himself meander through those thoughts for a moment.

"You want to play?" John asked, his fingers playing across the baby bottle that was stood on the dish drying rack.

"No thank you," Sherlock answered as he took his tea.

Five or ten minutes later, while Sherlock was typing up some notes he wanted to remember about the case, John cleared his throat nervously. Sherlock looked up, and John was toying with a soother he kept in a trinket box on the side table. "You sure you're not in the mood?" John asked.

"Quite sure, yes," Sherlock answered, then went back to his work.

A few minutes later, he was gathering clothes to go have a shower when he noticed John had followed him into the bedroom, and had taken his plush dragon from the nightstand drawer. "Smaug?" he said, offering the toy. Sherlock stopped midway through choosing pyjama trousers, and gave John a curious look, his head cocked slightly.

"John, do you need to play?" he asked.

"What?" John asked. "No, I just think you seem like -- "

"You do," Sherlock cut him off with a vaguely smug smile. "That's why you keep asking. You need it." Sherlock ignored John's arguments to the contrary, setting his clothes down. The shower could wait. He climbed onto the bed and settled against the headboard, then stretched out his arms. John set the dragon down on the nightstand, moving as if hypnotised and unable to do anything but settle between Sherlock's legs, sitting sideways, leaning into the offered hug. The consulting detective's long arm snaked out and grabbed Smaug, slipping the toy into John's arms. John gave an irritated grunt, but he accepted the plush creature.

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, trying to estimate the reaction his next gesture would create. John was calming in his arms, but the serious expression he wore (not to mention the fact that John showed zero interest in reversing their ageplay roles) indicated that he was not feeling remotely young. This was merely a soothing technique for the doctor… an unusual one, but given the situation, Sherlock wasn't surprised that John needed an unusual demonstration of comfort.

Sherlock judged that offering John a soother had only a thirteen percent chance of provoking a positive or neutral response. So he was quite surprised when he drew the soother from his dressing gown pocket, and John took it eagerly, letting his head fall against Sherlock's chest with a painfully vulnerable sigh. Sherlock comforted him with long strokes of his hands over the smaller man's head and shoulders, down his back and then up to start over again.

"You going to tell me a story, too?" John asked. Sherlock knew it was meant to be a snide remark, but the fact that there was a quite large kernel of longing behind the question made John's snippy tone fall utterly flat.

"Yes," Sherlock answered with a grin. "There once was a gorgeous doctor with a lovely arse," he began. John laughed so hard, he spat the soother out.

"You can't tell a story like that!" he half-shouted in amused surprise.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "We're both adults here." John sputtered, trying to answer, but Sherlock rather had a point there. Instead, he retrieved the soother, nodded at Sherlock, and settled back into his embrace. "There once was a gorgeous doctor with a lovely arse," he started over again. "And he shared a flat with a consulting detective who wanted to bend him over his chair and screw that lovely arse…" John squirmed in his place in Sherlock's arms, as the unconventional story had an equally unconventional but altogether welcome effect.


End file.
